


Hearts Made of Steel

by HitanTenshi



Series: Ones in the All [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/F, F/M, I have… many many FMA OCs, I probably forgot some canon characters in the tags oh well, I will always put an appropriate warning in those chapters, M/M, the rape elements only show up in a few specific chapters, the story begins during the Ishvalan War and extends past the Promised Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7183949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HitanTenshi/pseuds/HitanTenshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herein lie the stories of an aristocratic Amestrian, her younger sister, and an Ishvalan alkahestrist. All three of them get tangled up with the Elric Brothers, the Amestrian Military, and the Homunculi's conspiracy. OC-centric. Some OCxCanon and OCxOC. M for violence, self harm, and sexual content, both in consensual circumstances and in non-con circumstances. Related art can be found on my deviantART and tumblr (both hitantenshi). Asks can be sent to the characters (particularly the OCs) at the tumblr account onesintheall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fiona

**Author's Note:**

> Was posting this on FF, but I prefer AO3's formatting, so I've dragged it over here.

She had been so proud of her big brother, so proud as Corben had gotten on that eastward train to join the military, so proud that he was going to protect their country. And it had been easy to be so, because _clearly_ the ungrateful Ishvalans didn’t understand what Amestris had offered them, _naturally_ they were a gaggle of uneducated desert-dwellers, _obviously_ their rebellion must not be allowed to stand. That’s what everyone who’d come to tea had said, anyway, especially Grandmother, who always makes sure that everyone knows her opinion — _and_ that everyone agrees with it. (To defy that woman is practically to defy all of Amestrian aristocracy, as she had seen all of her children married into distinguished families.)

Yes, it had been easy to throw assumptions and opinions at a war being waged on the other side of the country, to claim the actions of Corben and every other soldier there as right. But it isn’t so easy when her brother returns home four years later… when he brings the war home _with him_.

The entire Clellan family goes to the West City station to greet him: Papa in his tweed suit and clerical collar, Mama in her folds of finery and strings of jewels — even spirited eight-year-old Briana has been forced into a dress, with bows in her hair. But Fiona walks behind her parents and sister, clutching in one hand the last letter Corben had sent her from Ishval:

 _Fi,_  
  
_I’m coming home. If anyone asks why, say only that I’ve been honorably discharged. The reason… well, that’s only for your eyes._  
  
_They say there’s no point keeping me on the front because I’m not fit for battle anymore. My squadmates have to shake me out of nightmares, and that’s when I can even sleep at all. I can’t hold my gun straight or keep my knees from shaking every time I think we’re being sent out there — I can’t even hold my pen straight as I write. They say it’s shellshock, and home will do me good, but… I don’t know, Fi, there’s something unnatural to all of this. The things I’ve seen… the things I’ve been ordered to do… I don’t know if there’s any getting better from that._  
  
_I can’t say much more now, but I’ll be home before you know it. If anything can cure me, it’ll be seeing all of your faces again._  
  
_Much love,_  
_  
_ Cob

And now here he is. What is she supposed to do? She had always been the calmest of them, the one able to ride out the storms with a level head, but now… Even with tranquility on her face, she’s afraid. The war is no longer some distant struggle for the greater good. It’s a darkness creeping towards her from Corben’s letter, and it makes her fear that the man who steps off that train will not be her brother.

Of course, when he _does_ step off the train onto the platform, beam in his family’s direction, and throw his arms out for hugs, such a fear subsides, as if it had been a small fire suddenly doused with water.

“Cob!” Quite ignoring the fact that she’s wearing a dress, Briana sprints toward her brother and leaps into his arms. And though, because of that letter, Fiona can picture Corben crumpling under the force, he remains stalwart — not at all like the trembling, frightened soldier who had written her. Is he suppressing the shaking he had described? She sighs inwardly, because she really hadn’t needed to ask that of herself. Corben is much like their mother, maintaining a sunny disposition in all weather, even if hurting underneath that smile. He wouldn’t mention a word like _shellshock_ and get Fiona riddled with worry if the matter were not serious, but she can understand why he would want to be received with cries of joy and hugs rather than be treated like a glass doll.

After initial greetings at the station, Fiona keeps her distance for most of the evening, for fear that proximity will bring the delicate matter out in company. Yes, she has always been excellent at keeping secrets, but if Corben is ill, how can she delay? Finally, though, the friends and family are shooed away and everyone gets ready for bed. The real trouble is getting Briana to stop talking Corben’s ear off.

“—We all helped Papa plant a garden at the parish, and Summer had a foal last spring (but Grandmother bullied us into selling it), and birds are finally coming to the little bath Mama put in the yard for them, and there are so many kittens all over the estate that I can’t count them anymore! There must be hundreds! _Thousands_!”

“You’ll have to show me all of these wonderful things _tomorrow_ , then, won’t you, Bri?”

The little girl nods with such enthusiasm that it’s a wonder she doesn’t clock her jaw against her own collarbone. Given Corben’s tone attempting to communicate his exhaustion, Fiona approaches to take Briana to bed, but the message sails over that head of fiery waves.

“Cob, what was it like there?”

Fiona barely suppresses a gasp. Their brother had already endured the onslaught of questions from their guests, surely he shouldn’t have to feel a need to answer—  
  
“Sandy. Hot. Loud.” Corben bounces Briana on his lap a few times as he ponders (and Fiona is certain that, for a moment, his gaze meets her own). “It wasn’t a fun place, my lass.”

“Why? Did lots of people die?”

“Briana!” Moderating her tone quickly, Fiona crosses Corben’s room and clasps one of their younger sister’s hands. “Our brother’s had a long journey. If you ask him too many questions, he’ll fall asleep right here and now. Come now, dear, let’s be off to bed with you.”

The little one pouts at first, but with enough coaxing, she is led to the nursery and tucked in. Fiona returns, closing the door behind her, and sits beside Corben, her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s all right. I don’t mind hearing about gardens and kittens — not even about the old hag.”

That makes Fiona snort in a most unladylike fashion, but she restores her composure quickly. “You know what I mean. Everyone poking and prodding into things they can’t understand. _I_ can’t understand them, either. I haven’t been there.”

“And you never should,” Corben is quick to put in. He turns so that they face each other and squeezes her hands in his. “Fi, I would never ask you to go through… _that place_ just to understand. No one… _no human being_ should ever have to…” His sentence dies, and each attempt to revive it creases his brow and chin, as if causing him pain.

“Cob, don’t force it. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

The tension slips from his face, but when Fiona hugs him and rubs his back, it’s as if she can feel knots under his skin — not only in his muscles, but in his heart. She knows it’s only her intuition telling her that, but her intuition has been known to be pretty good. Papa even says perhaps God has gifted her with eyes that can see into the hearts of others, and though she isn’t sure of that, she can’t deny that such a gift would come in handy at a moment like this. If only she could see and understand without Corben having to tell her. All she can do is soothe and shelter him and hope that his pain will loosen with time.

+.+.+

She keeps hoping that even when troubling behaviors become patterns. Corben sits with her and Papa at breakfast, and his eyes will flit to the large bay window over and over, as if he expects to find someone out there, watching. Papa even catches him at it sometimes and asks, _“Is everything all right, Cob?”_ only for him to turn that smile on and answer that everything is fine. At other times, Corben needs to be asked a question multiple times before he responds, and even then, his answers are vague. Though he lets Briana pull him every which way across the family estate, he seems to have lost interest in simple things like horseback-riding and berry-picking and stone-skipping.

And, of course, there are the nightmares. The first time Fiona had managed to shake him out of one, he had sprung at her, hands going for her throat, before coming to his senses. And despite his tumultuous apologies, despite the fact that he only shows how scared he is _to her_ , still he refuses to tell her about Ishval. She tries, she _tries_ to be patient with him, not to press him for explanations, but the longer he keeps the dark memories inside, the more staunchly she fears he will pay the price.

Her first confirmation is an empty bottle of wine hidden under his bed. At first, she tells herself that one of the staff had left it there, but when the number of bottles grows exponentially (and not just wine: beer, rum, hard liquor — the works), she can’t keep quiet about it any longer.

“You’ve been _snooping_ in here!?” Corben demands when she finally confronts him, and, even now, there’s a slight slur to his words and the scent of alcohol on his breath.

“I know I shouldn’t have,” she admits, forcing her own tone to remain calm and level, “but, Cob, I’m worried about you.”

“Oh, are you? How touching. You _worry_ . You _pity_.” He grips her arms tightly, shaking her. “You think I’m some pathetic wounded animal, do you!? Like one of Bri’s kittens!?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Cob. I only want to help.”

“Help?” He laughs, and it’s a dry and heartless sound. “You think you—” With expression hardened once more, he shoves her away, with enough force that Fiona’s back knocks against one of the bed-posts. “You want to _help_ me, do you? Well, you _can’t_ ! You hear me? **You can’t help me!** ”

She stands still as stone, afraid that abrupt movement will set him off. It’s almost as if she’s trapped in a room with a savage predator. Her first hunch had been right: the person who’d stepped off of that train hadn’t been Corben, not the same smiling brother she’d known all her life. But, even if the war had changed him, her love for him has not changed, and _somehow_ she needs to make him understand that!

The door behind them creaks, and they both whirl. Framed in the crack of moonlight is Briana, her green eyes wide with terror. For a deadly moment, the scene hangs. But then Corben seems to grasp what he’s done, and he melts. He drops to his knees as tears spring to his eyes, and though he doesn’t hold his arms out to either of his sisters, Fiona can tell that he wants to. She goes to the door and ushers Briana inside, letting the little girl cling to her dress as they shuffle to where Corben has crumpled. And then all three of them are crying and holding each other. Corben begs their forgiveness over and over, and they grant it every time. With all the noise, it’s a wonder they don’t wake the whole house.

After what must be at least an hour, Briana has cried herself to sleep, cradled in Corben’s lap. Quiet settles over the room, until he chooses to speak, softly enough so as not to wake his sister.

“We weren’t men in that place.”

Fiona catches a _“Hmm?”_ before it slips out, determining silence a wiser course of action. Besides, she knows what place he means.

“We… were animals. No better than hunting dogs. If we saw an Ishvalan, we were given permission to kill them. More than that, our commanders would _order_ us to kill them. Even the old, women, and children. The children—” He pauses there to drag in a painful breath. “Once, we captured a monastery. The monks had been caring for orphans there. And we… we killed them all, Fi. We shot them and left their bodies to rot in the desert sun. Those are the nightmares that haunt me most. I… I can’t look at my own baby sister without seeing their faces.” A fresh cascade of tears makes his cheeks glimmer in the pale moonlight. “And I can’t look Father in the eye or even lift a prayer because I know… I know what I’ve done is unforgivable. It should be me who’s dead.”

“Cob.” Her touch is light and soothing on his arm. Yes, the things he describes pain her, horrify her, but she refuses to draw back from him. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“I pulled the trigger.”

That he had, but she can’t leave him with the last word. “But, you had to follow orders—”

“But I knew they were wrong, Fi. If… If enough of us had stood up against the orders, then maybe—”

“You can’t know what could have been,” she interjects, and then she sighs. “Cob, thinking like that will only make it worse. You… You have to look to the future. You’re alive, and the least you can do is make the most of that blessing.”

Corben says nothing.

“Look, let’s talk to Papa about this in the morning. Even if you think God won’t forgive you, I think you at least owe our father the parson a chance to tell you otherwise.”

“…All right.”

“Thank you.”

They carry Briana back to her bed, both placing tender kisses on her freckled forehead before slipping back into the hall. Then it’s arm-in-arm the few paces to Fiona’s bedroom door, where they hug tightly.

“I’m so sorry, Fi.”

“It’s all right, Cob.” After a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “I want you to know: even with what you told me about Ishval, you’re still my brother. And I still love you with all my heart.”

His arms squeeze around her, but she’s not afraid of an outburst anymore. When he answers, his voice sounds like it might break again: “Thank you, Fi. That… That’s more than I could ever deserve.” With a kiss to her cheek, he whispers, “I love you, too.”

And then they part, and Fiona thinks that things may turn out all right after all. But, that’s before the next morning, before a scream rends the peace of that house beyond all repair, before Fiona runs to the source of the cry and finds Briana in Corben’s room, staring aghast at the limp body hanging from the four-poster.


	2. Carter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a somewhat graphic assault scene. I have bounded said scene in asterisks, so — if you feel uncomfortable reading the gritty part, please feel free to skip to the end of the asterisk-bounded section once you hit the beginning of it. You won't miss any key details by doing so.

The war had changed many things for Carter. It would be nigh impossible for it _not_ to, living on the Amestrian-Ishvalan border in that dusty little town of Koblen. The bullying that he had learned to fend off with unaffected face had redoubled, so that he and his mother couldn’t cross the street without getting dirty looks and the occasional thrown pebble, and even his father had received fewer and fewer patients because most didn’t want to be treated by the Ishvalan-lover. But it had been endurable, and Carter had believed in his mother’s faith, had believed that God would not leave them at the mercy of their enemies.

But then the soldiers come in numbers larger yet, until a great battalion is encamped in and around the town in preparation for moving to the front. The townsfolk are glad for the extra business and the strangers with which to gossip. And it is the latter which places Carter's family in real danger. The boy himself may be only thirteen, but he knows enough of the world to recognize hatred in eyes that turn to him and to his parents.

Perhaps that's why he has a mysterious sense of expectation when a knock comes to their door that spring evening in 1908. Father opens it and ushers inside Jean Havoc, the youngest son of the general store owners (one of the few families that hasn't scorned the company of Carter's).

"Doctor Tucker," huffs Jean, clearly winded from sprinting here, "you h… have to run! All of you! They're coming!"

"Who, son?"

"Soldiers! I overheard. They said the Führer's given orders to kill all the Ishvalans! And Mr. Gribb told them about _you_ and got them all riled! It’ll be a mob by the time they get here!!"

 _Kill_ them? But aren't they — Mother and himself — Amestrian citizens as much as the next? Mother had even been scorned by her own family for her devotion to her husband over the country of her birth. It just doesn't make sense to him, and Carter is no fool. Is this simply how hate can twist the thoughts of men? It is, after all, _Amestris_ who had started this whole war.

Father turns to Mother with eyes wide, but clear. "Adiva. Take Carter and run. I'll try to talk them down."

"Dike, you heard Jean! Do you think they will listen to you in such a state?"

"I think I should try. Anything to delay them. Now go!"

And they do. As Father tells Jean to go home (no doubt to get him out of harm's way), Mother grabs Carter's hand and leads him from the house. They run as fast as sandy terrain will allow, and none too soon, because as Carter glances back, he sees the light of approaching lanterns and hears the angry shouts. However, their haste is still not fast enough. Before they are even out of earshot from the house, there's the crack of a rifle, then another and another, until one bullet reaches them. It collides with Carter's leg, ripping clean through the muscle and making the limb seize up with pain. He falls with a cry, and his grip on his mother's hand is enough to pull her down with him. She, not being a doctor's wife for nothing, acts as soon as she recovers, tearing a strip of cloth from her hem and tying it tightly around the wound to staunch bleeding. By the time she has gotten back to her feet and helped Carter to his, soldiers are upon them.

“Well, well, we caught 'em running like the dogs they are.”

“And just think, lads," cackles another (possibly the one who'd shot Carter, as he's toting a rifle across his shoulders), "in another week, we won’t have such slim pickings for hunting!”

They're surrounded. The five uniformed men form a loose circle, hedging them in. With his throbbing leg, Carter would have no chance to escape, but—

“Mother, go.”

She squeezes his arm, a silent answer that she will not abandon him, and her face is set in a strange mix of edge and tranquility.

“Aww,” the armed soldier scoffs, “little mutt’s wanting to protect his bitch mother, is he?”

Anger burns hot in Carter’s stomach. Forget his leg; _this_ pain far outweighs it. Any thought of pacifism or diplomacy evaporates from his mind, leaving only the urge to pound this man’s face to a pulp. Had he not been injured, he might even have accomplished it, but — as things are — the brute must see him coming, because when the boy lunges at the man to knock him to the ground, Carter’s trajectory is altered by the swift blow of a rifle butt. Even as the sand and dirt abrade his skin and irritate his wound, his head reels from the harsh impact. Sight and sound swim around him, so that he wonders if this whole horror is just a nightmare and he’s only now waking up.

He is reminded that it isn't when the soldier brings the rifle down on his head for a second time, a third—

"Stop!" Over the ringing in his skull, Carter hears his mother's plea, but he knows that her cry falls on deaf ears and cold hearts. These men… No, they aren't even men. They're animals! To consider other human beings dogs to be hunted for sport! Could even Ishvala forgive such wickedness?

"Hey, Worston! Don't off the whelp just yet! Let's have us some fun with the savages before we riddle 'em."

"You first!" Worston scoffs, though he does stay his next blow. "The bitch isn't bad-looking, but are you that desperate?"

"I ain't picky."

"Then at least take them back. You can, uh, _share_ with anyone else who isn't picky."

Rough hands grab Carter's arms and drag him in what he judges to be the direction of home, but his attention is more fixated on his mother. A bruise blooms along her jawline, and her hair is speckled with dirt, but she walks as calmly as being yanked off-balance every few steps by two soldiers can allow. Not once does she look for a way out, a way to escape and save herself. He would cry from the sheer power of her devotion if the situation weren’t so dire — even as things stand, his eyes water from the pain of a sandy bullet-hole and a throbbing head.

The futility of their escape attempt seems thrown in Carter’s face when they return to the Tucker home in such short a time, even at only a brisk walk. He can hear more shouting now: mostly gleeful, crazed sounds of men thirsty for Ishvalan blood. In the midst of the crowd of hate-filled faces, however, the boy sees—

“Father!”

The doctor is splayed in the dirt, as though the mob had thrown him to the ground and trampled upon him, but — as Carter’s eyes remain drawn to him — he stirs. At the sight of them, Father tries to stand, to come to his wife and son’s defense, but a nearby soldier kicks him under the ribs, snarling, “Stay down, traitor!”

“We got ‘em, boys!” the man who had addressed Worston cackles, gripping Mother by the hair and shaking her. The image sickeningly reminds Carter of a picture in a book he’d read years ago: a fisherman holding his prize of a great trout aloft, eager and ready to skin and eat the wriggling creature. And, indeed, as he glances around at the soldiers, there is the gleam of hunger in their eyes as they cheer and whoop.

"Adiva!" Father's voice makes itself heard in the midst of the mob. They meet eyes and, in a way that would defy explanation by most, Mother's face is devoid of fear. But Carter and Father know: it is surely God's grace giving her this courage. But the boy doesn't get long to look, though, because the soldier dragging him gives him a hard shove forward, and his unstable leg refuses to support him. He can hear shouts and mockery all around him — _“That’s it, dog! Grovel!”_ — over the general tumult, and he wishes he could shut his ears as easily as he can his eyes.

Then a hand grasps his, and he, knowing its touch, looks to his mother, who had also been thrown to the ground. “Carter,” she murmurs, and even now her voice carries immense strength, “you must be strong, darling. Do not take vengeance for yourself, or for me. That is God’s work. You must endure this, understand?”

He honestly doesn’t, really, but he nods, tears already welling in his eyes.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Come on, bitch!” It’s the soldier from before, the one who had suggested _having some fun_ . He grabs Mother and yanks her away from Carter. “We won’t bite _too much_!”

“No!!!” But her hand has already slipped out of his.

“Carter, I love you! Remember what I said!”

“ **Mother!!!** ”

And then the crowd swallows her.

“No!!! Get your hands off her!!!” Father’s voice again, but Carter can’t find him in the crowd. The cacophony feels like it’s crushing him, killing him slowly — and _that’s_ before the worst begins.

“Ain’t enough of the bitch to go around!” he hears one soldier say to his fellow, no doubt forced to shout in order to be heard.

“Well, then, what about this’n?” And a hand grabs the back of his shirt, forcing him up onto his hands and knees (and putting weight onto his wounded leg). “I reckon ‘e’s big enough!”

Carter keeps his eyes firmly shut and, trying to heed his mother’s words, whispers prayers.

“What’re you muttering, dog?” The first soldier clamps a meaty hand around Carter’s jaw, stopping him short. “Hoping your desert god’ll save you?”

“I reckon we oughta teach this savage a lesson!” growls the second. “If you’re gonna pray, pray to us!”

“Yeah, pray for mercy _from us_ , mutt!” From the direction, Carter judges that the first soldier is letting his voice be heard by the surrounding men. “Who wants to help us _purify_ this little savage?”

Fear clenches around Carter’s heart. He tries to cut off everything around him, to somehow protect himself from whatever will come, but his attempts are far too feeble to do much. One glance around him shows about a dozen soldiers ringing him. The one still holding his face is tall and brawny, and Carter wonders if the man plans to snap his jaw, because he probably _could_.

“Don’t touch him!!! Carte—!!!” But Father’s pleas are silenced by the ruckus, and the boy can see signs of swift aggression through the many booted legs of soldiers.

“Fath—!” It’s hard to cry out at all, with his cheeks being squished together by the brutish man's vice of a grip, but even his attempt is cut off by a rough shake of his face.

"That's enough outta you!" growls the owner of that hand. "I've got a better use for that mouth of yours, brat!"

“Let ‘im scream first!” suggests the soldier who’d first pulled Carter up, now at his back. In a movement so alarmingly fast that he has no time to react, his shorts are unbelted and yanked down to his knees, along with his boxers. In the two seconds that he tries to resist after the fact, both are pulled off completely. Maybe it’s the warmth of the night air eliminating any sense of sudden chill, or maybe (more likely, in fact) it’s his own shock, but Carter doesn’t fully register the fact that he’s half-naked. Looking for himself would probably confirm the reality more, but he can’t so much as turn his head with the strong hand gripping it so tightly. This bizarre numbness persists even as he is grabbed around the hips and lifted just off the ground.

“Time to split the little mongrel!” announces the soldier now holding him aloft.

“You ain’t even _big enough_ to split him, Pyke!” chimes in one of the surrounding men. “But thanks for loosening him up for the rest of us!”

“Ah, shut yer face!” Pyke snaps back.

 _This isn’t happening. This is all a terrible dream._ For a few seconds longer, Carter is able to cling to such thoughts. But then he feels pain of such intensity that the contemplation of what’s real and what isn’t is no longer possible. All he can do is _feel_ and, just as the soldiers had hoped, _scream_ . It’s wrong! **It’s wrong!** But it’s tearing into him, and he can’t get free! Even his attempted kicks are of little good, with his legs spread around Pyke’s hips as he… _Oh, God!_

The surge overcomes him in an instant. Hot sick pours onto the ground, filling his nose and making him choke. His vision swims, and — for a moment — he prays that God will grant him a quick death. But then someone whacks him on the back, forcing him to hack up the rest and clearing his airways.

“There, see?” It’s the brawny soldier who mocks him. He had let go of Carter as soon as the boy had started vomiting, but he’s quick to return in the aftermath, grabbing Carter by the hair and shaking him.  “We’re purifying you already!”

“Pound the brat, Pyke!”

“Yeah, what’re ya waiting for!?”

More of that overwhelming pain. Shove in, drag out, shove in, drag out, and all he can do is scream and sob and claw at the sandy earth. “Stop!!! P—! _Please_!!!”

"What's that?" The brawny soldier feigns lending Carter an ear. "I think he said he wants more!" The circle of men roars with laughter and encouragement. With a wicked grin, the brute kneels in front of Carter, and his hand goes to his own belt.

Even though he knows cutting off one sense won't protect him, Carter shuts his eyes.

"Open wide~"

Carter screams and begs, but all of his pleas do nothing. Nor do, when the soldier grabs his chin once more, his wild swings of scrawny arms in the darkness beyond his closed lids; even when he _does_ hit his mark, the man’s strength seems easily able to overcome the frantic defense of a mere child. And then something — no, he knows _what_ it is, but he refuses to think about it — pushes past his lips forced open, in and down until he gags and vomits afresh. The intruder withdraws for a moment to let him hack, but then he just laughs again.

“Looks like the little mongrel needs to be trained better! C’mon, boys! Let’s remind this mutt of the dog he is!”

And they descend upon him. His hands are pulled out from under him and forced to touch… He would shudder if his body were not being shaken and rattled already by the violent rhythms at his back and now at his head. He can’t escape. What, then? What is he supposed to do!? They’re going to kill him like this, and Mother, too! _Mother…_ what had Mother said? Endure? But how is he supposed to endure this… this _degradation_ ? No human being should be asked that much, surely! …But Mother would say that such is the very reason why one must call upon God’s strength. So, once again, he tries. He tries to foster a prayer in his heart: for rescue, for strength, for whatever Ishvala can provide him. And… he can’t _explain_ it, but… the brutality around him — the soldiers invading him, grabbing him, spraying spit and urine and semen on him and _in_ him, laughing at his misery — seems to diminish. By no means is it _gone_ , but… it’s as if a curtain has fallen between him and them, numbing him to their torture. The curtain grows thicker and thicker, blocking out sound and smell, taste and feeling, until Carter realizes that it’s because he’s losing consciousness. Whether a blessing or a curse, he cannot say, but at this rate—

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

_BANG!_

A gunshot. He doesn’t know where from, but the sound of it casts an immediate hush over the mob. The next thing Carter knows, he’s on the ground, dropped into the puddle of his own sick. There’s shouting, but he has trouble making it out. The voice sounds official. Had the officers in charge finally been alerted to the problem? But just as Carter hazily begins to hope for justice, he hears something clearly:

“All right! You’ve had your fun, men! Now get your arses back to camp!”

Fun? **Fun?** What kind of man — what kind of human being — can look at the scene that must be before him and call it _fun_!?

The soldiers grumble assent, and the shuffle of feet soon overpowers any sound. Carter doesn’t dare stir, in case one of them tries to brain him before calling quits. As the crowd’s noises fade into the background, however, Carter can pay better attention.

“Are you all right, Major?”

“This… Captain, I…”

A sound that could be a thump on the back. “Yeah, it’s awful. You should meet this one guy I know, if you get the chance. He’s also a State Alchemist. Name of Mustang.”

“The Flame Alchemist?”

“Yeah… he’s a dreamer, too.” A pause. “I hate what to think this war is going to do to a man like that.”

“Captain… We should help these people. That…” The owner of this booming voice seems to be near tears. “That’s the least we can do. This atrocity—”

“Say nothing more, Major. Some locals seem to be helping the father. Look to the mother — I’ll get the boy.”

Carter tenses. From the major’s words, he wants to think that they are not here to hurt him, but… can he really be sure? The captain’s voice had seemed so cold in comparison. What if… What if he—?

The instant that a hand rests on his shoulder, Carter springs. Or, at least, he tries to. His shock and his injured leg make a successful surprise attack quite impossible, and the captain catches him with no trouble.

“Easy! Easy, kid! I’m not going to hurt you.”

He isn’t as harsh-looking as Carter had expected him to be. The captain has a long face and nose, keen light eyes behind rectangular glasses, and short black hair combed back over his head. And though he strikes Carter as the sort of person on whose bad side one would not want to be, he doesn’t seem particularly _mean_ . Normally, his intuition would tell him this is enough to credit such a person, but right now is _the farthest thing_ from normal, and Carter immediately does his best to scramble away — again, with little result.

“Hey, I’m not—! Hang on!” The captain grabs Carter by the shoulders and gives him a quick shake. “Look, son, I know you’re scared. But I need for you to trust me, all right?”

That is a great deal to ask from someone who’s just been _sold out_ by their neighbors — sold for _slaughter_ and _humiliation_ , no less. The look in the captain’s eyes tells Carter that he understands that, too, but he’s asking anyway. So, still a mite skittish, the boy nods.

“Captain!” The major is a giant of a man — a pure-blooded Amestrian, if Carter had to guess — with no hair on his head save for a single blond curl. Once he looks in that direction, however, the boy’s gaze cannot stop itself from sliding down to the ground. Splayed and motionless beside where the major kneels… is Mother.

_No._

“What is it, Major?”

_No!_

“She…”

“Adiva!” Bloody and bruised, but on his feet, Father pushes through the Havocs and rushes to the spot. All it takes is a moment of assessment, and he knows. Both of them know. Carter has seen that look in his father’s eyes before, but never… never to such a depth of pain. Mother is gone.

+.+.+

For a long while after that, all Carter is aware of his is own grief, of crying and wailing in spite of eyes already squeezed dry and a throat already worn raw. Between Father, the Havocs, and the two kind-hearted soldiers, he must somehow be taken into the house. He has a faint awareness of Jean gripping his hand as he sobs, but by the time his senses have returned to him, he’s alone. Lying in his own bed, clothed and clean, he discovers a splitting headache and a terrible thirst on top of his other injuries. At least the dehydration problem can be solved by a full cup of water left on his bedstand, even though the sensation of swallowing brings up fresh memories that nearly make him spew. It’s late into the night now, and, past the bedroom door, in the main room of the small clay house, Carter can hear discussion.

“Is there nowhere you can send him? At least until the war is over and everyone’s passions die down?” The captain.

“I have a brother in East City, but… I can’t ask something like this of him. He’s too preoccupied with alchemy to take care of a child.”

Oh, yes. Uncle Shou had always been an iffy subject around Father. Carter had only met him once, and he had seemed nice enough then, but Father had always been sure to keep a certain distance from his younger brother. But why even bring up the subject?

“It’s too dangerous to keep him so close to the border.” The major. “Someone might not be there to stop them next time.”

Wait… are these men telling Father to send him away? Such a prospect only increases the sense of unease in Carter’s already-queasy stomach. To be thrust into a new situation so quickly after… after _everything…_ He doesn’t want that at all.

“Even this time around, Fessler only called them off because we move out tomorrow. He’d have no problem with laying waste to an entire city of Ishvalans with the methods those sons of bitches just—” There’s a sudden pause, as if Father had given the captain a disapproving look. “—Sorry, Doctor. You get my meaning.”

Father sighs. “Indeed. Thank you for the advice, gentlemen. I’ll… think of something.”

“Well, then, Doctor, we’ll take our leave of you.”

“Yes… thank you for…”

“Of course.”

Soon enough, the house falls silent, and exhaustion pulls Carter back into a sleep too heavy to permit nightmares — a luxury he does not learn to appreciate enough until it is gone.


	3. Briana

Before that night, Briana would never have thought that her life could be so defined, so drastically altered, by one moment. But after? After seeing Cob's face as he'd dangled there, lifeless, after burying him at Papa's parish only a few months after his _supposedly safe_ return from Ishval? Perhaps it is something she can only realize in hindsight, as she matures and becomes more aware of her own thoughts and of the world around her, but a part of her had died that night with her brother. Were the joyful nature of her childhood a blazing flame, the loss of Corben would be a glass case sealed around it, cutting off the air until the last flicker had been snuffed out. Every time she passes his room, she thinks of him. And not only that — his favorite reading spot, his designated mug — there are far too many things in this house which remind her of Cob, which further drain the life from her and turn her thoughts toward dark corners of the mind. Where her younger self would have smiled and laughed, she now relies on cold scowls and sarcasm.

Needless to say that her transformation does not go unnoticed. Mama and Papa both interrogate her on the matter, with little headway. What makes them think she _wants_ help? Can't they just mind their own damn business?

Even Fi is no better. After Cob's death, Bri’s sister buries herself in some newfangled science of the mind and, thanks to her aptitude for the stuff (as well as the family’s money and connections), she gets accepted to a privileged college where the field is taught and is gone within the year. Some sister she’d turned out to be.

It’s three _more_ years before Briana’s ticket out of that suffocating house appears, and it arrives from the unlikeliest of places: Grandmother Catherine. One breezy afternoon in the late spring of 1911, Madam Berkeley visits (in all her usual frippery) to have a serious talk with the Clellans.

“Briana is on the cusp of twelve years old, and _what_ are you doing for her education? Nothing!”

“Mama, that’s not quite fair—”

“Be quiet, Rhoslyn,” Grandmother snaps. “You’re much too soft on these children. With Corben dead and Fiona lost to some avant garde pseudo-science, Briana is the only one of your children left who can be molded into a member of high society.”

Molded. Leave it to Grandmother to come up with the least humanizing verb possible. As if that weren’t bad enough, she had spoken so coldly, so matter-of-factly, about Cob. He’s dead, the end — as if the loss of him hadn’t affected any of them at all. Makes Bri want to punch something (or _someone_ ).

“Mother,” Papa speaking now, “Bri is already quite accomplished as a young lady. She can paint and play piano, and she’s read all the books in our family library.”

“The _novels_ , you mean.”

Papa smiles. “Sometimes it is the novels which teach us most effectively.”

Grandmother scoffs. “And here I thought you were supposed to be a _vicar_ , Willard.”

Knowing better than to get in a pointless argument with his mother-in-law, Papa holds his peace. But what Grandmother doesn’t understand is that Papa believes that a love for God should bleed out into a love of literature and science and art and music; that is why her own education has been so rounded up to this point. She may not be a _master_ at any one trade, but she can learn quickly and thus add new skills to her repertoire. Far be it from anyone to say that the Clellan children were not bright.

 _And yet_ **_Cob_ ** _had to go and be the stupid one to—!_ No, she must bring her thoughts back to the now. This is her future being decided.

“Your eldest sister’s family has a finishing school focused on the arts,” Grandmother is saying. “If Briana has the talent you claim she has, then I think _that_ is the best place to send her.”

“Send her away?” Mama’s voice trembles. And, indeed, the prospect must seem frightening to her. With Cob and Fi gone, she has clung to Bri all the more (which, incidentally, hasn’t done wonders for helping Bri to open up to her).

“Yes, Rhoslyn, I think you must. She must come to Central, finish her education, and then enter society as a young lady. _That_ is my final decision.”

All without a word from Briana herself. But what else should she expect?

“Bri, my lass.” Papa sits beside her and clasps her hand. “Do you _want_ to go?”

Ah, there’s the rub. In one sense, yes! Yes, she wants to go and get away from this house where Cob’s ghost will not give her peace! But in another… does she really want to seal her life into the (to use Grandmother’s word) mold of an aristocratic lady? And then option three appears: she can go to this school and learn and all that, but she’ll be in Central City! Just think of all the sorts of rebellious mischief she could get up to! The offer immediately becomes tempting — more than tempting, it sounds like exactly what she needs.

“Yes, Papa.”

With a smile and a pat on the knee, he seems content with this answer. Papa stands and nods in acknowledgement to Grandmother. “Shall I leave the arrangements to you, then, Mother?”

“I would feel insulted if you did not.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” But he winks at Bri as soon as Madam Berkeley has turned away.

+.+.+

But perhaps she makes a decision about Central City too quickly. The metropolis far exceeds her expectations in size, density, and noise, so that, when first stepping into Central Station, she quite wonders if the behemoth will swallow her up. But Grandmother prevents her from gawking for too long, and soon they are rattling down the streets in the back seat of a grand car (at least, it appears grand by Bri’s standards). And though the girl tries to take in more of the city through the vehicle’s windows, Grandmother is quick to chide with: “A lady does not oggle at buildings, Briana.”

She is _this close_ to telling Grandmother something that is _most assuredly_ not what a lady does when the car parks. A horde of servants flutters down and around, porting luggage and opening doors as they go.

“Well, go on,” says Grandmother.

“Wait, _this_ is _the school_?” With such a grand edifice, Bri had thought it to be the home of her maternal cousins and owners of the school: the Armstrongs.

“Of course it is, child! No expense could possibly be spared in the maintenance of this fine establishment! It’s been passed through your aunt’s husband’s family for generations!” Raising a pair of opera glasses, the old hag examines Bri more closely. “Are you certain your father wasn’t exaggerating your powers of perception? To ask such a dull question—”

She doesn’t stick around for further interrogation. Taking the hand of a footman, she descends from the car. (Oh, _how relieved_ she’ll be to get out of this damn dress!) One massive flight of stairs later, Bri passes through double doors held open for her and enters a foyer that seems bigger than the entirety of her childhood home. It certainly is beautiful, and yet…

Hollow. Pointless. Fake.

That’s what these heavy curtains and high ceilings and lush carpets tell her. Though Bri, at twelve years old, has little idea of the _true_ value of money, she can still perceive that too much has been poured into this display of lavish wealth.

Perhaps that’s why she so listlessly lets herself be led to her dormitory. She may have escaped her prison of home, but she now suspects that this place may become a new prison, and one even more debilitating to her vitality. Only after a restless night’s sleep do answers begin to find their way to her. Much to Bri’s disappointment, the other students seem more like _drones_ than actual humans. Everyone in the same placid blue uniforms, traipsing along the same structured corridors to the same vapid lectures. True, perhaps they, like her, are being forced to reshape themselves to the patterns established by their families, but still! She had thought that _one_ would share her gall, her pressing urge to take these starched-shirted rules and give them a good chuck out the nearest window! What the hell do they matter, anyway!? What fulfillment does this facade-focused life bring!? **None**!

Because of this harbored bitterness, it’s understandable why Bri’s classmates give her a wide berth. But that’s fine with her; it’s not like she needs to make friends in order to accomplish her personal agenda at this school. Still, with no co-conspirators, Briana has little motivation to go exploring outside the walls of the school. And, having so little human interaction (at least on a personal level) means that, when in the quiet with her thoughts, Cob is never far. Sometimes, in the dark of the dormitory, she can picture him standing at the end of her bed, the curtains knotted around his neck and his eyes bulging, asking her a hundred unanswerable questions with their glazed stare.

So, she can only assume that, when a primped-up, pure-blooded-Amestrian-to-the-core upperclassman approaches her near the end of first term, that the girl does so out of pity. Despite the obvious preening, she is _very_ pretty, so much so that Briana begins to feel self-conscious about her own sloppy appearance. But the smile shaped by the girl’s full lips is kind, almost _unendurably_ kind — like when one takes a sip of tea only to find it saturated to the dregs with sugar: the taste both repulses and attracts. For the sake of the _attracts_ bit, Bri decides not to chase her off… not _yet_ , at least.

“Hello,” says the girl. Good God, even her teeth seem so perfectly aligned and pearly. Is it _natural_ for someone who can’t be older than fifteen to be so _stunning_ ? Bri herself is, by this time, only a few months away from thirteen, and yet _she_ still feels like the fabled ugly duckling, just without the fortuitous genes of the swan waiting to come to her rescue. After all, inheriting her father’s freckle-ridden complexion doesn’t exactly fit the typical image of a beautiful young woman. But _this_ girl… she’s like an animate porcelain doll, and Briana can’t help but feel somewhat _in awe_ of her. Perhaps that’s why she wrings out a response:

“Hi.”

“I’ve noticed you sitting alone a great deal.”

Alone except for the dead brother ever on her mind, of course. “And?”

The older girl repositions one of the nearby chairs in the spacious art studio and sinks (practically _glides_!) into it. “Well, as the head of student body affairs, I can’t help but feel concern when a fellow student is so isolated.” Her smile falters. “Do you not like it here?”

“I…” Damn, that simper is _awfully_ sincere. “I like the classes fine. I’m learning and all. It’s just… _people_ aren’t nearly as straightforward as painting or piano.”

The blonde nods sympathetically and — much to Bri’s alarm — places a hand atop one of hers, an act which prompts Bri’s immediate recoil. Just what is this girl’s deal!? It’s like she’s trying to be all motherly or big-sisterly!

“Ah, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to offend!” What had been a sad smile now devolves into the expression of someone on the verge of tears. Shit. For all of Briana’s intelligence, her socializing skills have plummeted. What is she supposed to _do_ !? Surely it isn’t _normal_ for someone to cry so _easily_!?

“Uh, no, you didn’t…” Waving demonstratively at the girl seems to have little calming effect, so — frustrated by this unexpected and jostling situation — Bri shakes her head vigorously and groans (not pausing to think about how unladylike this might appear). “ _Aagh_ , stop. Stop!” Though the older girl doesn’t regain her smile, Bri’s display seems to startle her enough to get her attention.

“Look,” says Bri, fixing the girl with matter-of-fact solemnity, “I’m not the snuggly type, even with my sibl… my _sister_. It’s kind of unfair to expect me to be all cushy with someone I just met, don’tcha think? I mean, I don’t even know your name!”

The blonde absorbs that, blinking her round blue eyes several times as a sort of stalling tactic. Finally, however, her expression brightens once more. “You’re quite right. In my eagerness to show concern, I got carried away. My apologies.”

Bri thinks she could accept said apology more easily if this girl didn’t sound so much like a third-grade primer being read aloud. She (the upperclassman) goes on to introduce herself as one Marjorie Ullman and gives a little nod of her head as substitute for a curtsy. How _does_ she keep her hair in such pristine ringlets, without so much as a displaced strand? Only after a long moment of gawking does Bri realize her rudeness in not giving her own name in turn, and she stumbles her way about doing so.

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” says Marjorie. “I knew who you were from the start. Head of Student Affairs, remember?”

“How’d you snag a responsibility like that?” A blunt question, but Briana knows there must be students much older than the two of them who might value such a position as preparation for some future political career.

The blonde smoothly raises and lowers her shoulders, as if an outright shrug would be too coarse a method of nonverbal communication. “How does anyone do anything in this world of ours?”

Now _that_ Bri can answer for herself: cash, charisma, and connections. In short, either Marjorie or her family had given a large donation to the school in exchange for some _privileges_ . Well, well. So, despite her angelic appearance, it would seem that Miss Marjorie here has some _deviousness_ to her. Consider Briana’s interest officially piqued.

+.+.+

If one were to ask Briana how she became friends with Marjorie Ullman, she would shrug and say, “Dunno, it kind of just _happened_ .” But, for better or worse, she has finally found someone to _talk to_ in this place. With a few strings pulled (and, no doubt, money changing hands), Bri soon learns from Marjorie that they will be roommates starting from the next term. No complaints from this rebel. And, indeed, in the conversations they share late into almost every night, Marjorie pulls back more and more of the carefully-crafted porcelain doll. Underneath that flawless exterior, she really is just an ordinary girl, and one just as disillusioned with the aristocracy as Briana is. In this way, their united hatred against all these selfish snobs only draws them closer together. The use of respective nicknames (“Marj” for Miss Ullman) is almost immediate. By the middle of the second term, they can glance across a hallway and tell each other _all_ about their respective classes through a smile or a shrug or an eyeroll. It’s _better_ than having a big sister. It’s… _more_.

Perhaps that’s why, increasingly so, in the midst of otherwise normal conversations poking fun at the hypocrisies of the grand Armstrong Institute of Fine Arts, Bri finds herself focusing less on the subject and more on Marj. When asked if anything is wrong, she — of course — denies this, but feels her face grow hot.

And she knows that she can’t ignore this development any longer when Cob stops coming to her in her dreams. But what is she supposed to _do_ about it? If she… if Briana _likes_ Marjorie, what could that spell for their _friendship_ ? As time passes, these thoughts and feelings only increase and deepen, but she daren’t speak a word on the matter. She finally has someone to _confide_ in, and yet she still can’t share this most pressing worry.

For all of Bri’s efforts of concealment, something must leak through, because, just when she’s starting to dip toward despair once more, the status quo changes. Marj kisses her. Not a chaste, _sisterly_ kiss, mind; she cups Bri’s face in her hands and pulls her close, like she wants never to let go. And once Bri gets over that initial shock, she kisses back. Her arms slide around Marj’s neck, resting so naturally against the smooth curves of her shoulders and upper back. At long last, Bri thinks, fate may have smiled upon her.

The one real damper is keeping the whole thing under wraps (because Grandmother would probably _kill_ her if she knew). But the tension of secrecy only makes reaching nighttime more exciting, only makes Bri more eager to explore the new phenomenon of this relationship. Not once does Marj stop her; in fact, she seems _thrilled_ . As such, what starts as kissing and cuddling soon grows into _touching_ and _stimulating_ , but it all feels so innate to want to do such things, to want that kind of connection with another human being. Maybe that’s just the hormones talking, but she feels so _happy_. Instead of Cob filling her with thoughts of regret and bitterness, all of her mind’s attentions are directed to Marj, to what they share every night. And the more she experiences the other’s kiss, her touch, the little sounds she makes as she trembles, the more Bri wants her. It’s quite like she’s caught fire, and this passion now consumes her. But even as she revels in this lovestruck inferno, a little voice in the back of her head tells her that, at the end of all this, she’s only going to end up burnt.

At the end of the school year, the Institute holds a grand party (because what _else_ do these rich people do to socialize?). For the first time she can remember, Briana isn’t salty about wearing a dress, but probably only because she knows that Marj’s eyes will be on every curve of forest green fabric and freckled skin. Still, _her_ presentation is nothing next to that of her dear friend. Marjorie is _stunning_. When she enters the ballroom, her pale blonde tresses echo her dress’s sky blue ruffles. Surely an angel inhabits that body, for — indeed — Marjorie has been as an angel to Briana, saving her from the loneliness of her own despair. But as Marj glides across the waxed floor, drawing adoring comments from every side, it is not to Bri she goes. There is a man, tall and thin, with auburn hair and olive complexion, who takes Marj’s gloved hand in his and raises it to his lips.

Who is he? Who _the hell_ is _he_ to kiss Marj!? Bri is just about to storm over there when a cold slap of reality intercepts her in the form of her grandmother.

“Well, Briana, I must say that you actually look _presentable_ this evening.” There are those damned opera glasses again. “I knew this school was the right place for you.”

Curbing her tongue from a dozen snappy retorts, Bri forces a placid smile and curtsies politely to Madam Berkeley. “It’s all thanks to your magnanimity, Grandmother.”

Grandmother huffs. “ _Naturally_ it is. I’m pleased to know you’ve finally come to appreciate all that I do for you, my dear.”

 _Hag_ . Meanwhile, the strange man now has his hand on Marjorie’s shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She has to _do_ something! ”Please excuse me, Grandmother. A close friend of mine promised to introduce me to her family, so I really ought to wait with her until they arrive.”

“Oh?” The madam’s social radar has clearly activated as she spies around the grand hall. “Who would that be?”

“The Ullmans,” and she nods in Marjorie’s direction (pointing would be too plebeian for Grandmother’s tastes). When the old woman follows her grandaughter’s line of sight, however, Bri is quite dismayed at the look of _almost_ _pitying_ disapproval on her face.

“My dear… that _is_ her family.”

“What?”

“The Ullmans _I_ knew died in poverty after the last head of the family squandered their fortune. The man you see there is the girl’s godfather, who has taken care of her since her father’s demise. Not of _noble_ blood himself, but he has accrued _quite_ a bit of money. With the _rumors_ about him, though, I’d hate to think what the _child_ is like.” And she covers her mouth with her fan as if rumors were some tangible thing she must protect herself from.

Enough. She’s heard _enough_! With naught more than a dismissive, “She’s still my _best_ _friend_ , Grandmother, and I do wish you wouldn’t speak ill of her!” Bri leaves Madam Berkeley’s side and weaves her way between dancing couples and chatting circles to reach Marj. And when she gets there, she can see a twinge of sadness behind her friend’s smile, as if Marj had been hoping that Bri would stay away.

“Ah!” The godfather spots her and offers Bri a welcoming grin. “You must be my dear girl’s new playmate. She’s told me _so much_ about you.”

 _She’s_ **_my_ ** _dear girl, thanks much!_ By some miracle, Bri is able to restrain such comments and settle for: “You have the advantage on me, then, for I only just now learned from my grandmother that you are Marjorie’s godfather.”

The man looks a tad hurt as he looks to Marj. “You didn’t breathe a word about yer old man? Marj, baby…”

Marjorie says nothing, but her eyes seem to be pleading with Briana to leave. As if! Bri’s going nowhere until she understands just _what_ is going here! Why does this man address his goddaughter with such terms? They go _beyond_ the familiar _or_ _familial_. In fact, if anything, they remind Bri of the way she would address the _cat_ she had when she was little (a fat, lazy thing named Mr. Biggles, but that’s beside the point!), and she is not about to stand for some man — godfather or not — talking to Marjorie as if she is his _pet_!

“Now look here—”

“Yes, indeed!” The godfather cuts in and — without so much as asking permission — places his free hand around her shoulders. There’s something _slimy_ in his touch that only confirms Bri’s suspicions that she _doesn’t like_ this man _at all_. “It simply won’t do for us to go unacquainted, Miss Briana. See, Marj tells me that ya aren’t keen on goin’ home for the summ’r’.”

“I—”

“You simply _must_ stay with us! My dear girl can’t _bear_ t’be parted from ya, see?”

 _Why don’t you let her speak for herself on that point!?_ “Well…” Looking to Marj provides no help, as _she_ is now avoiding Bri’s eyes with a guilty expression. She can’t let things end this way between them. She has to find out what’s going on and _help_ Marj, if she can. “That sounds _lovely_.”

The man’s grin broadens, and his grip around Bri increases ever so slightly, like a snake slowly tightening its coils. “Fantastic. Oh, but where are my manners?” Removing his hand from Marjorie’s shoulder, the godfather reaches down and clasps Bri’s hand in a firm shake. “Name’s Doyle Boucher. I hope that you and I can become _good friends_.”


	4. Fiona

The toughest part about being a trained therapist in an era when psychology is still fairly new to the scientific scene is that finding someone to take one seriously is nigh unto _impossible_. So has Fiona’s career path led her: going from employer to employer, trying to convince each of the importance of mental health and treating it equal to physical health. But, at every turn, she is waved away by skeptics. Even her family’s wealth and connections can’t help her now. And for all of Fiona’s innate good-naturedness, opposition this persistent take their toll on her own spirits. Searching for an application of her studies becomes more and more wearisome of a task, until she begins to wonder if she should give up this whole enterprise and return home.

But that, of course, is when she thinks of Cob and knows that she can’t turn away from this mission. It is for his sake that she presses on through what seems like a hopeless situation, praying that there will be a light at the end of this bleak tunnel.

Of all the places that she had applied for consideration, the one Fiona pursues the most relentlessly is the military, for that — she deems — is the greatest available resource of men and women with battered mental health. Her brother had died from wounds of war, whether the military would own up to that or not, and she has no intention of letting others suffer similarly.

By the fall of 1910, probably every clerk at the administrative offices of Central Command knows her face. Therefore, consider her quite surprised when it is not one of the staff, but a decorated officer, who first takes real notice of her.

“You’re here an awful lot for a civilian.” The young woman is about Fiona’s age, with short blonde hair and honey-brown eyes that have an immediate sense of sharpness to them, as if she is taking note of every detail. _Hence_ her approach to someone with no official connection to the military over something as nondescript as a repeated appearance. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Before answering, the ginger glances to the soldier’s shoulders. Cob had helped her memorize all the ranks before his deployment — a handy thing now for creating a good first impression. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but unless you can get someone on high to hear me out, I’m afraid that my purpose here will remain unfulfilled.

The woman smiles kindly. “What purpose is that?”

“To improve the mental health of soldiers.”

“Oh?” Where others have rolled their eyes, here only eyebrows lift. “How would you do that?”

“By giving them someone to confide in — someone who can help them work through what’s weighing on their minds. You see—” Normally, Fiona doesn’t add her personal investment to her pitch, but she senses compassion from this woman. “—my brother was at Ishval. He came home alive, but… well, he hung himself. If I can stop others from undergoing the same kind of pain…”

She’s obviously made the right choice. Sympathy lines the lieutenant’s brow as she mulls over what she’s heard. At last, she must come to a decision, because she hands Fiona the clipboard she’s carrying (which actually only holds blank paper covered with jotted notes of to-do’s). “If you would, write your name and your address. I’ll see what I can do, but I promise that someone will call you when there’s news.”

She’d said _when,_ not _if._ Hope wells up in Fiona’s chest even as she signs and indicates her hotel. Is it possible that, through this happenstance encounter, she’ll finally make some real progress? Of course, Papa would say that this isn’t happenstance, but the hand of God. Just in case that is so, Fiona sends a brief thought of gratitude to the ceiling — best to cover all her bases. The woman retrieves her clipboard and, with a brief introduction of herself as one Riza Hawkeye, takes her leave.

The days that Fiona’s forced to wait are the most difficult to endure, but one must push through pain to reach a goal, must they not? When the front desk of her hotel finally informs her of a call asking for her, Fiona knows that her hands are trembling with anticipation even as she takes the receiver in hand.

“H-Hello?”

“Hello, Miss Clellan.” The voice at the other end is male, deep, and clear. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Mustang. I’m the commanding officer to Lieutenant Hawkeye, whom you met the other day.”

Fiona nearly drops the phone in surprise. A lieutenant colonel!? That’s _much_ further up the chain than she had hoped for (though, perhaps, since Cob had only ever reached Corporal, she’s blowing the gap between ranks a little out of proportion). “Um, yes. Yes! A p-pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Mustang chuckles, a welcome sound. “No need to be nervous. This isn’t an interrogation. Hawkeye’s told me about your proposal, and I’d like to discuss this more, if possible. I have some time before I return to East City. Shall we, say, have lunch?”

Cue the second near-loss of the receiver. Not only is this man willing to _listen_ to her, but he’s asking her to dine with him! Is she _dreaming_? “That would be w-wonderful,” she bumbles before truly registering what she’s agreeing to.

“Excellent! May I come by in — let’s see, it’s nine — two hours?”

Well, he certainly doesn’t waste any time. “Y-yes, the sooner the better!”

“Splendid! I’ll be on the dot, so, see you then!” Even after the click of disconnection, Fiona stands in shock for some time before the hotel clerk brings her back to the present. Then it’s a mad dash (or, at least, as mad a dash as one could expect from one as even-paced and easy-going as Fiona) to her room to gather all any and all pertinent papers — if this Lieutenant Colonel Mustang requires further proof of the viability of her plans, then the last thing she’s going to do is be caught without evidence! By the time eleven rolls around, she has freshened up and, briefcase in hand, settled in one of the lobby’s armchairs.

True to his word, the soldier is punctual. It takes but a moment after his entry for the two of them to catch each other’s eye and offer proper greetings. He’s much younger than Fiona would have thought, for someone of his rank. In fact, as far as she can tell, he seems to be about the same age that Cob would be, had he lived. As she absorbs that thought, she misses something that the man says.

“Pardon?”

“I asked if you’d like me to carry that for you?” Mustang points to the briefcase.

“Oh! Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel, but it isn’t heavy.”

“Please, Miss Clellan—” The soldier smiles and offers her his arm. “—let’s dispense with formalities. Call me _Roy_.”

Pink creeps across Fiona’s face. Perhaps it’s simply due to Grandmother Catherine’s badgering about how Fiona’s features are so sharp (particularly her nose), but she’d never thought of herself as particularly pretty. And, certainly, she’d never received attentions from a young man, but _that_ may be because, almost as soon as she’d come of age, she’d gone off in pursuit of psychology. Of course, she can’t assume that Mustang — _Roy_ , rather — has any intentions aside from helping her feel at ease, but it’s still flattering, and she decides immediately to return the compliment: “Then you must call me _Fiona_ — that’s only fair.”

“I quite agree.” And, arm in arm, the lieutenant colonel leads her from the hotel.

Before long, they are seated at a pleasant little cafe, enjoying the fall air and beauty of the changing leaves. Fiona lets small talk prevail until they’ve each finished a first cup of coffee, but then timeliness takes control.

“Now then, Roy, what would you like to hear about? The work itself? The plans I’d like to implement?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. You’ve pitched to Administrations so many times that I could gather plenty from what we had on hand.”

“On hand?”

“Yes, Hawkeye collected all of what you’d submitted to the office there. I tell you, that woman can work miracles with paperwork.” Roy motions to the waiter for a second coffee before turning his attention back to Fiona. “Anyway, since we don’t need to dive into any of that, _I’d_ like to tell _you_ what I’ve already put into motion.”

What he’s already…? Is she hearing this right?

“I’ve sent a letter of recommendation to the Führer’s office with an abbreviated description of your wishes. As a State Alchemist, I have _some_ weight with him. If all goes well, he’ll approve it and give you permission to work under the military as its first therapist.”

Fiona’s mouth hangs open — it’s unladylike, but right now, she doesn’t care. She’ll work on being properly thrilled once she’s processed her surprise. Eventually, she formulates an intelligible response: “I… can’t begin to express my gratitude.”

Roy waves her down before she can embark on a long speech. “ _Please_ , Fiona, the chance to share a meal with a beautiful young lady is all the thanks I need.”

Another blushing spell. “Careful,” she quickly replies in good humor, “You’ll make me think this invitation had motivations _other_ than business.”

He laughs. “My apologies.” By the time that the waiter comes around with his order, however, his expression has gained a measure of solemnity. “It actually has little to do with business. I simply want what’s best for my men, and any half-decent commander would agree with me. I had a front-row seat to what Ishval did to so many soldiers… Considering what we did in that place, perhaps it’s some form of divine punishment on us that we’re suffering after the fact.”

Fiona can only think of Cob’s insistence that God could never to forgive him for taking part in a massacre. Thus, Roy’s words ring true, but the voice of caution tells her to press a little deeper. She has to be sure that there’s no hidden angle to this opportunity which seems too good to be true. “So, that’s why you’re helping me?”

“Yes, though… I do have one question.” Roy leans across the table and fixes Fiona with a winning smile. “How do you feel about _children_?”

+.+.+

By the end of the year, Fiona has received confirmation from the Führer’s desk of her official employment by the military. Once she has been allotted office space in the Personnel building of Central Command, she’s certain that it will only be a matter of time before she can start accepting clients. However, that certainty slowly dwindles as the months pass with barely anyone noticing the existence of her little clinic. Only the few who do seek her out (usually on a recommendation from _Colonel_ Mustang) keep her spirits afloat, as they reassure her that she is genuinely helping people. And the more that trickle in, the wider that news of her will spread. She simply has to be patient.

About a year after she had met the colonel, Roy visits her office with a young lad in tow. Only then does she think back to the (at the time alarming) question he had asked her about children. He had described a boy of eleven whom he’d met in the Eastern countryside as someone who he might have the chance to introduce to her before too long. This must be the boy, though a year’s passing would make him twelve now.

“Hello, Fiona,” is Roy’s cheery greeting. With a nod to the boy, he continues, “This is Edward Elric. He just applied to become a State Alchemist — the youngest ever, if they’ll accept him.”

Edward determinedly turns away. “They _better_. I kicked ass in that demonstration.”

Whatever imagining of innocence Fiona had constructed for Roy’s young friend cracks at the sound of such casually-employed vulgarity. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised; his manner of dress practically screams _bad boy._ Trying to maintain composure, Fiona looks to the colonel for help.

“Well, assuming that they _do_ accept him, I’d like to arrange for Edward to come see you from time to time.”

Clearly not having been let in on this, the lad rounds on the soldier. “Whatever for!?”

“You live in the Eastern region, and I’m one of the senior officers in command there. That pretty much makes you my subordinate.”

“But what the hell does that have to do with—!?”

“You know as well as I do,” Roy interrupts, “that you could use someone to talk to _confidentially_.”

Much to Fiona’s surprise, the boy bites his lip, effectively silenced. There’s something going on here that she doesn’t understand, but hopefully that won’t remain the case for long. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” she therefore agrees, reaching for a nearby clipboard with form and pen. “If you could just fill this out for me, Edward…”

She can tell immediately that speaking to him as a child is not the right tactic. His eyes, an exotic golden, are harsh and fiery. Her intuition tells her he’s already seen far too much pain for a boy his age. Even as Edward accepts the papers from Fiona, compassion swells in her chest, and she vows to herself that she’ll do everything in her power to help him, even if his temperament indicates that trust will be difficult to gain. And she has just the scheme in mind to do so. Mama had written recently to tell her of Briana’s enrollment in the Armstrong Institute of Fine Arts. If Edward proves unwilling to open up to _her_ , then perhaps someone his own age will have more success. The _true_ difficulty will be getting Bri to agree to help, as Fiona knows she hasn’t been the best of sisters these past several years. But perhaps it’s time that she start making up for that.


	5. Briana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has implications of dub-con and non-con. You have been warned.

With the lazy groan of someone suffering from too much summer, Briana sorts through the day’s mail, a habit she had picked up during the past semester. Since Marj would always dread reading any notes proclaiming some poor boy’s undying affection, knowing that she’d have to reject them, Bri had stepped in as a sort of filter, sending all the raving lunatics to the trash and only letting through the messages of moderate temperament (an irony unto itself, considering her own volatility). Now, however, with her current lodgings, there are _other_ pieces of mail. Even as green eyes pass over the shapes forming this new addressee’s name, Bri is tempted to add the letters to the bin. Such is her pronounced dislike for Marj’s godfather. For one thing, the fellow has hardly been around in the two weeks Bri has stayed here, so what kind of guardian can he really be? For another, even when he _is_ around, he makes Bri uneasy. Is it his shady grin? His shifty eyes? Whatever the source, she can, for once, understand where her grandmother had been coming from. How could rumors _not_ form around such a man?

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Boucher slithers around the foyer’s corner and approaches. “Sortin’ mail, are ya? ‘M sure Marj appreciates it.”

Bri says nothing, keeping her gaze fixed upon the letters. Those long-fingered hands dart into the midst of her work to secure pieces for himself, and it takes a fair amount of willpower for the young ginger not to be startled by the speed of the man’s movements. Must _everything_ about him remind her of a snake?

At length, she has extracted the worthy letters and is about to head upstairs with them when the godfather calls her back. “Ah, ya missed something. This one’s addressed t’ _you_.”

“Leave it. I already know what it is, and I have no intention of replying.”

“Oh?” She _really_ doesn’t like the tone of his voice there. “Even though it’s a relative?”

“Yes, now _please_ —” She even does him the courtesy of facing him. “—throw it away.”

He may nod in compliance, but she can swear that she sees him pocket the letter from Fiona. Because, yes, it is her sister who has been writing, over and over for months now! Briana can’t imagine what she could want, but she knows that refusing to answer, refusing even to _read_ her correspondence is the only way she knows how to _hurt_ Fiona. Hurt her the way _she_ had been hurt by losing her living sibling as well as her dead one. Of course, now that it’s summer, Fiona could more easily take it upon herself to go to the Institute to look for her, and the school would have choice but to give her the forwarding address. _Damn it all…_

“Okay,” Bri says upon entering Marj’s room (which, like the rest of the house, is a pleasing spacious but not _too_ spacious), “three letters made the cut. Do you want to see them?”

“Not right now.”

The listlessness in the other’s voice quickly dampers Bri’s facade of boundless energy. She really shouldn’t blame Marj for feeling down; it’s been difficult for both of them in these weeks. They’ve hardly spoken, and they certainly haven’t offered each other _comfort_ . It’s _lonely_ , and Bri doesn’t like it. She just wants things to go back to how they’d been before this shady godfather had entered the picture! But, that, unfortunately, is something that she can’t make happen, so working through his unexpected appearance will have to suffice.

“Marj…” And she sits beside the blonde (who is currently still under the covers). “Why didn’t you tell me about Boucher?”

Reluctantly, Marjorie pushes down the duvet enough to meet Bri’s earnest gaze. “Because I knew you wouldn’t like him.” After a heavy pause, she adds, “ _I_ don’t like him, but he’s my legal guardian, so I can’t just—” She bites her lip, as if stopping herself from saying something she shouldn’t.

Well, at least she’d been honest. That alone returns some of Bri’s sense that she and Marj are united in their view of the world. Not to mention the fact that compassion pricks Bri in little bursts, because she knows all too well how what should be a home can feel more like a prison or — perhaps more accurately — a torture chamber.

Tears glisten in the corners of Marj’s eyes. “Are you very angry with me, Bri?”

The ginger shakes her head and even manages a smile. “No. If I’m angry at _anyone_ , it’s that _pissant_ calling himself your godfather.”

Though stifling a giggle, Marj presses a finger to her own lips, conveying that Bri shouldn’t insult the man so loudly. “I do love you, dear,” she chuckles.

“Yeah, I know. Love you, too.” And everything becomes a little better as soon as Bri leans down for a kiss.

+.+.+

After making amends with Marjorie, Briana had hoped that the rest of the summer would pass in relative peace (save for the existence of Mr. Boucher). Alas, she is not so lucky. About halfway through the break, there is a ring at the door, and peeking out from an upstairs window proves Bri’s earlier fear: Fiona has found her. But before Bri can act on this alarming discovery, she hears the front door open and the echo of Boucher’s voice. _Damn, damn,_ **_damn_ ** _!_ Thundering down the stairs probably isn’t the best impression to make on an older sibling one hasn’t seen in over four years, but to hell with that! Whatever Bri’s resentment towards her sister, she doesn’t want Boucher talking to Fiona! However, by the time she skids to a halt behind the towering figure of Marj’s godfather, he’s already invited the elder Clellan sister in for tea.

“Bri, darling!” Just what does Fiona mean by _darling_? It’s got to be some sort of persuasion tactic. And yet she doesn’t move quickly enough to evade her sister’s hug. “I should have come to see you sooner, but—”

“I can’t breathe, Fi!” Not entirely true, but it’s enough of an excuse to earn her freedom from the embrace. The situation is only made _more awkward_ by the way that Boucher’s eyes are on the two of them, as if he’s watching a live drama. What’s _he_ waiting for?

“Why don’t you ladies settle in the parlor?” he suggests. “Marj ‘n’ I’ll bring in the tea.”

Bri can just picture the godfather adding poison to someone’s cup, but hopefully Marj will prevent such an event. Still, she’d almost rather be stuck making tea with Boucher than forced to converse with Fiona. _Almost_.

“So,” says her sister, once they are seated across from each other, “you’re angry with me.”

 _Uh,_ **_yeah_ ** _, but where’s this coming from?_

“Mr. Boucher replied to my latest letter and explained that you weren’t even reading what I’d sent.” Though Fiona’s expression is injured, there is a sprinkle of understanding. “You have every right to be angry with me, Bri. I did leave you all alone so soon after…”

“Yeah, you did.” Groaning, Bri crosses her arms. “So, that bastard invited you over just to spite me, did he?”

“Briana!” Fi seems equally shocked by Bri’s use of language and by her using such a term to describe her host, but neither is of consequence to Bri herself.

“Whatever. You’ve got my attention for the moment, so what was I supposed to be reading in your letters?”

Fiona exhales slowly, gathering what she wants to say. “Well, I’ve got a practice established — I’m a therapist in the military.”

“Are you now? _Well_ , I’m glad your abandoning me helped your career _so much_.”

Though she winces slightly, Fi seems to be taking such an insult rather well, as if she’s grown accustomed to comments of the sort. “Bri, I know I’ve been an awful sister, but I’m trying to make amends. I’ve _been_ trying for almost half a year, and you’d _know_ that if you’d read my letters.”

 _Touché_. “Fine, go on.”

“Thank you. I have a certain client who’s your age and the more I’ve thought about it, the more I see similarities between the two of you.”

“Hold on: someone my age is in the _military_?” What the hell are those bastards thinking!? If war and death could destroy Cob, then what would they do to someone half his age!?

“Yes,” and Fiona’s tone reflects a thought similar to Bri’s. “His name is Edward Elric, and… he’s quite _difficult_.”

 _Well, gee,_ **_thanks_ ** _, sis. Good to know that you think I’m_ **_difficult_ ** _._ “And what’s this got to do with me?”

“I was hoping… that you could _help_ me.”

Briana laughs. “Why the _hell_ would I help you? It’s a bit late to call in favors, Fi.”

“I know, I know!” Before she starts _actually yelling_ , Fiona catches herself and restores her calm. “I know that I have no right to ask this of you… but I’m asking anyway. Not so much for my sake as for _his_ . Darling… Edward is a very troubled boy, and I’m _worried_ for him. But he won’t open up to me.”

“And you think I’ll have more luck?”

Fi nods. “As I said, you have much in common. Even more so now that you—” An awkward clearing of the throat. “—have picked up _language_ similar to his.”

Oh? As little as Bri wants to help her sister, this Edward person sounds at least _potentially_ interesting. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“I’d like for you to meet him the next time he’s in Central. He travels around a fair deal and hardly ever comes to see me, so it wouldn’t be a large time commitment from you.”

Since Marj and Boucher choose that moment to enter with the tea, Briana decides to cut the conversation short with: “Oh, all right, then. Just give a ring when you need me.”

Fiona smiles apologetically. “Thank you, darling.”

“Whatever.”

Sure, she’d _agreed_ to help out, but Bri honestly doesn’t expect much, even when that phone call finally comes over a month later, near the end of summer. After scribbling down the address and suite number and telling Marj she’ll be out for the afternoon, she takes a cab across Central to the military headquarters. Right up to the moment that Bri walks into Fiona’s little clinic, she sets her expectations as low as possible… but that becomes somewhat difficult once she sees the guy she’s supposed to meet. Bluntly put, her first thought of Edward Elric is: _He’s_ **_weird_ ** . Maybe it’s all the black leather, or maybe it’s the giant suit of armor sitting beside him, or maybe it’s the hardened look in his eyes. At least in that last part, she can feel a twinge of kinship, but how the hell does Fiona expect her to be of any help with this _punk_ ? (Though, come to think of it, is _she_ a punk herself? At least on the inside?)

“Bri! Thank you for coming, dear. This is Edward Elric and his younger brother, Alphonse.”

 _Younger_ brother!? Wait, there’s _a person_ in that armor!? Maybe it’s not the older brother who’s really the weird one.

Alphonse waves with a cheery _“Hello,”_ but all Edward offers is a grunt of acknowledgement. At this point, Briana is seriously confused, which means that she’ll have to rely on her sister to straighten things out.

“I’ll be in the lobby if you need me, Brother.” And, with that, Alphonse stands and clunks his way from the clinic’s inner room. The silence left in his wake is so awkward that Bri fears _breathing_ will set someone off.

That is, until Edward cuts in with, “Can we get this over with?”

Briana’s thoughts exactly, but she doesn’t _voice_ that opinion.

“Yes, yes. Briana, please sit down.”

Reluctantly, she does so. What she doesn’t expect, however, is for Fiona then to stand. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then. Just… talk amongst yourselves.”

“ **What**!?” Both teens exclaim, but Fiona is gone before either can call her back with protests.

“Dammit!” Edward crosses his arms and legs and glares at an innocent potted plant in the corner. “This whole thing’s a waste of my time already without _this_!”

“Well, gee, nice to know you think people you’ve just met are a waste of your time.”

To her surprise, the comment startles the boy. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh? Then what _did_ you mean?”

“I… It’s just…” But he turns away again without finishing his sentence. Well, looks like Fiona had been right about him being _difficult_.

“Look, you don’t have to bare your soul or anything to me. I’m not much for that kind of stuff.”

Edward spares her a glance and, after a moment’s thought, relaxes by a smidgen. “Why’d your sister make you come anyway?”

“She thought I’d be able to make you talk. Dunno why, though. I don’t have much problem with you giving her a hard time.”

His expression grows solemn. “You don’t get along?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Nothing,” he is quick to protest, “but… taking your sibling for granted ends badly.”

Okay, just who is interrogating whom here? And who is _he_ to talk about siblings!? Before she knows it, Bri is on her feet, fists clenched and eyes ablaze. “Look here, you! I could read you the riot act on taking siblings for granted and regretting it later, so _don’t even start_ with me, or — Fi’s client or not — I swear to God I will give you a black eye!”

She expects him to jump up, too, to throw a dare right back in her face, but he just sits there and stares at her, comprehension dawning on his face. “I… I’m sorry. I forgot about your brother — your sister told me, but…” He tries to offer a smile of truce. “That was a pretty good threat. I might have to borrow that.”

Truce uneasily accepted, Bri sinks back into her seat. What’s with this kid? He’s a bizarre mix of arrogant and despondent. And yet, the more she tries to sort him out, the more she sees herself. Dammit, had that been one of Fi’s motivations in sending her here? In an effort to turn the conversation away from herself, Bri poses a question: “Why’d you join the military? You don’t _look_ like a soldier.”

“I’m a State Alchemist,” Edward clarifies. “I need the military’s resources to look for something. I… I screwed something up real bad, and I’ve gotta fix it.”

“Oh…”

“But I still don’t like that the colonel sent me here to get advice I don’t need. I’m doin’ just fine. Don’t get me wrong, though,” he adds, “your sister’s nice and all… but I don’t really _know_ her. And I can’t be expected to share stuff with someone I don’t _know_ , can I?”

“Exactly! I know Fi means well, but this whole therapy thing seem _so_ _intrusive_!”

Edward’s eyes light up. “Glad to know you agree.” For a pensive moment, he picks at his face, but then he sticks out his hand in Bri’s direction. “You seem okay. I’m not in Central much, but… friends?”

With an incredulous snort, Bri briefly shakes the offered hand. “Sure, I guess. …I hope you find what you’re looking for, Edward.”

“Just _Ed_ is fine.”

“I suppose you can call me _Bri_ , then.” But that’s when she notices how stiff his right hand is, as if it isn’t flesh and blood. And, is that a glimmer of _metal_ just past his glove? Ed seems to pick up on her realization and he grimaces. “Never seen automail before? I guess you could say it’s my souvenir from my big screw-up. Stuff’s actually pretty helpful in a fight, though.”

“You fight a lot?” Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised, considering his punk appearance. “My papa taught me boxing, but I’m pretty out of practice, since my grandmother won’t let me continue studying it at school. Some bullshit about how fighting isn’t ladylike.”

Ed laughs. “I guess it isn’t, but don’t let that stop ya. My alchemy teacher says that, in order to train the mind, one should train the body. Maybe taking up boxing again will help you in school.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” she considers.

Somewhere in the point of the conversation, she’s stopped looking so much at Ed’s inexplicable choice of outfit and more so at his face. Behind the hardness of his gaze, there’s a kindheartedness. Perhaps, much like she had done for herself, he has deemed it safer to approach people from behind the wall of sarcasm and hotheadedness rather than leave himself vulnerable. Takes one to know one, she supposes.

“…Say,” she suggests at some point, “when you next come to Central, can I stop by again?”

“Don’t see why not.” His gaze flits to the clock wall, and irritation creeps back into his expression. “Agh, dammit. Al and I had better get moving. The colonel wants my report before the workday is out, and I haven’t even started the damn thing!”

“Best get to it,” Bri agrees, getting to her feet. “It was nice to meet you, Ed.”

“Yeah, same.” And he gives her a brief smile before he ducks out. Maybe he is still a bit weird, but it’s nice to know that she has just doubled her number of friends in the world.

+.+.+

If only her good mood could have prevailed. Thanks to being coaxed into having dinner with Fiona, Bri returns to Boucher’s house just as the sun dips below the horizon. The place is remarkably quiet, and it sets her on edge at once. Rather than call out, she ascends the stairs in silence, senses on the alert for signs of life. When she reaches the bedroom she and Marj share, however, she finds it empty. Bri can’t imagine Marj going out without telling her — the blonde is very organized and plans everything in advance, so it wouldn’t be like her to have a last-minute engagement. A bad feeling begins to pool in her stomach like molten lead. When she sticks her head out into the hall once more, she catches a faint light coming from Boucher’s room. Much as Bri detests the man, looks like she’ll have to ask him where Marj is. It’s a big enough house that she could simply be tucked away somewhere. And if _he_ doesn’t know, then she’ll just have to search for… herself…

 _What is that sound?_ With the feeling of leaden unease ever increasing, Briana tiptoes the remaining distance to the door and presses an ear against it. As soon as she does, though, she regrets it. It’s Marj, and she’s crying, _whimpering_. “I won’t do it!” she exclaims. “I don’t want to!”

“It doesn’t matter if ya don’t wanna, baby.” Boucher’s voice. “Yer gonna do what I tell ya to.”

“No!”

The crack of a slap. “Yer an ungrateful little bitch, ya know that!? Damn, Marj, I don’t like havin’ to get rough with ya, but you know I will if I have to! Now… stop yer cryin’ and come give yer daddy a kiss, _hmm_?”

“Kiss _yourself_ , for all I care! That’s the only person you care about!”

Not for one second does she think to run, even as footsteps draw close to the door. So, when Marjorie throws it open, disheveled and red-eyed, there stands Briana, silently demanding an explanation. At the sight of her, Marj devolves into tears once more and sinks into a heap on the carpet. As much as Bri wants to gather her closest friend into her arms, she remains on her feet, unforgiving eyes fixed upon Boucher. It only takes one glance to the state of the bed and to the little clothing the fiend is wearing for her worst fears to start coagulating. The anger boils in her blood even as the man comes to the door and surveys the situation. Bri can almost see the gears in his head whirring.

“Well… I guess this is as good a way as any for ya t’find out.”

“Find out _what_ , exactly?” and each word is uttered with venom.

Boucher grins with no attempt to cover the wickedness in his expression. “I think ya know exactly what. Yer a clever girl.”

She can’t breathe. It’s too horrible to accept, and yet that sickening feeling in her gut tells her that her awful hunch is correct. “She’s _fourteen_.”

“And?”

Red is all Bri sees as she wildly swings at the bastard. Had she not been so rusty at fighting or so enraged, she might actually have landed one on him, but — as things are — Boucher sidesteps her with ease and even catches her arm. “Mmm, yer really a feisty one,” he purrs. “I _like_ that.”

“Get off me! You’re a piece of fuckin’ _scum_!”

“Now, now, dear. I at least like to think I’m a _classy_ piece of fuckin’ scum.” Turning to his distraught goddaughter, the felon instructs, “Marjorie, off t’bed with you. Since ya put this off so long, I’ll explain things t’yer little playmate _myself_.”

Absolute horror fills Marj’s face. “No! No, _please_ , don’t—”

“You had yer chance, baby. Besides, this would have t’happen, sooner or later.”

“D- _Daddy_ , _please_!”

But Boucher has already yanked Briana into his room and shut the door. Bri herself is in something resembling shock. She doesn’t want to think about what’s going on, what might be about to happen. She wants to understand, and yet she’s afraid to. Unfortunately, all of that makes her resistance even less effective that it could have been otherwise.

After locking the door and pocketing the key, Boucher turns to her with a smirk. “Well, at least I got her t’call me _Daddy._ ”

“Y-You’re _despicable_.”

“I know, doll. That’s how I make a living.” With another tug, Boucher brings her to the bed and into his lap (which would be alarming enough without him being shirtless). When Bri instinctively pulls away from him, Boucher grabs her wrists with one hand and wraps his other arm around her waist.

“Now yer gonna sit there like a good girl, or I’m gonna hafta get _rough_ .” He isn’t kidding, either: terror is all that keeps Bri from squirming. “That’s bett’r. Now, I’m sure that snooty grandma o’yers told ya that Marj’s fath’r died after losin’ all his money.” He waits only for a nod from Bri before continuing. “Well, it might be more _accurate_ t’say he _spent_ all his money. Guess who he spent it to.”

“Y-You?”

“Bingo. Mr. Ullman had a likin’ for exotic substances, I guess ya could say. So, what’s a man to do when he’s racked up a debt he can’t possibly pay in his lifetime? I’ll tell ya what he does: he does everythin’ I say. He signs his little girl over t’me in his will, and then he shoots himself.”

Bri’s heart rattles frantically in her chest. She needs air. She needs to get away from this _snake_ , grab Marj, and run from this awful place!

“So here’s poor little Marj with her father’s debt t’pay back. What do ya think she does?”

Guessing she’s being prompted for a certain answer, Briana forces the words out. “E-Everything you say?”

“ _Now_ yer catchin’ on.” His grip slowly relaxes, but only so that his hand around her can start sliding downward. “So here’s you, hopelessly in love with Marj — and don’t try t’deny that. So, here’s ya thinkin’, _‘I gotta help my poor Marj. I gotta free her from this classy piece of fuckin scum.’_ ” Letting go of her wrists, Boucher brushes one hand across Bri’s cheek. “What do ya think _you_ should do?”

Briana bites her lip. Even as the expected answer rises up her throat, she fights it. She doesn’t want to play into this bastard’s hands, but… but Marj is in trouble. Marj _needs_ her, and she Marj. She can’t abandon her now, even if… even if that means doing something deplorable.

“I should… do everything you say.”

Boucher smiles in triumph. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Leave it t’Marj to be so afraid of bringin’ all this t’light. Poor baby probably just wanted ya to keep thinkin’ o’her as some innocent flower all for you. Now—” He grasps her chin. “—how about I shift half of Marj’s debt ov’r t’you? It’s too much for one p’rson to pay off, so that seems like the lovin’ thin’ for ya t’do, don’t it?”

Bri hesitantly nods.

“That’s a good girl.” By this time, his hand has reached her rump, and he has no reserve in stroking the slight curves. “I have the paperwork right here. All you hafta do is sign.”

Obviously, the snake has been planning this for some time. She might as well be signing in her own blood, but when he nods to what can only be a contract sitting on the side-table, she turns to read it. Most of the words pass unabsorbed through her mind, but one phrase stands out: _service his every whim_.

“What’s the matt’r, Bri?” Boucher urges when she hesitates to put the pen he places in her hand to paper. With the way she had shifted in order to look at the contract, her back is now to him, and he wastes no time in getting _handsy_ again. “Could it be that yer love for Marj isn’t as strong as ya thought? Wouldn’t ya do _anythin’_ for her?”

Of course she would do anything for Marj! Still, she does not move. Boucher’s patience must wear thin, because he squeezes her middle painfully. “Listen here, Bri. If you don’t sign, I’ll have t’send my boys to _pay a visit_ to your sist’r. We wouldn’t want _that_ , now would we?”

Damn him. Damn him to hell! …but she drags the pen across the page to form her name on the dotted line.

“Atta’ girl.” His lips are against her ear. “Keep in mind what I said about yer sist’r. I like t’work things out without violence, but… _desp’rate times_.” And then he lets her up, places the key he’d pocketed before in her hand, and even pushes her toward the door. “I imagine Marj is still outside. Why don’t you bring her in here and comfort the poor baby?” The felon settles on his bed against a mound of pillows with that same look he’d given Bri and Fiona before: a man watching the work of his evil hands unfold.

“Wh-What do you mean, _comfort_?”

“Don’t be dense, Bri. I want you to bring Marj in here and make love t’her. I have to know what I’ve got to work with.”

To _work with_!? “Why, you—”

“Ah, ah. Don’t make Daddy angry. An unfortunate accident for dear Fiona is just a phone call away.”

Fists clenched, Briana crosses the room and opens the door. Sure enough, there’s Marj, huddled against the wall in a summer nightgown, her face pressed against her legs as she sobs. In this moment, it’s a little hard to believe that Bri is the younger of them. Kneeling by her dear’s side, Bri brushes some of the tangled curls away from Marj’s face.

“D-Did he hurt you?” comes the muffled question.

“No. He told me about your father. About the debt.”

Marj sniffles. “So… So now you know that I…”

“Nothing you’ve done for that man is your fault, okay?”

“Even if… he _told_ me to become your friend? He said… he said he would cut what I owe in half if I got close to you, so I…” The sobs make her hiccup. “But I did love you, Bri. I _do_ love you.”

“I know you do.” And she wraps Marj in a close hug. “I love you, too. No pissant godfather is gonna change that, remember?”

She manages a laugh, in spite of herself, before meeting Bri’s eyes. “But, it… it _can’t_ have been just telling you the truth. What did he make you do?”

“He…” She knows that Marj will blame herself for this, but she can’t lie. “I took the half.”

The blonde’s eyes widen in disbelief. “You… You what?”

“I took half of your debt. I signed a contract for it. And don’t argue, it’s already done.” With a sigh, Bri runs a soothing hand over Marj’s head. “I’m not gonna leave you, not with this bastard. If he’s gonna drag you into hell, then he’ll have to drag me, too. I swear to you, Marj, I’ll see you free of him. Even if it takes my whole life.”

And then, of course, Marj is crying again, but there’s a gratitude mixed into the grief. Bri would like nothing more than to stay right there, but a cleared throat reminds her that Boucher is waiting, so — gingerly — Bri pulls Marj to her feet and shuffles with her back into the bedroom.

“Well, my pretties,” says Boucher, patting the expanse of bed in front of him, “come give Daddy a show.”


	6. Carter

In the end, Father does find a place to send him. For many years, there had been a certain wandering herbalist who had brought medicinal powders and plants to isolated doctors along the edge of the desert. A middle-aged Xingese fellow named Enlei Zhao, he had always seemed gruff and solemn to young Carter. But he had long been a friend of Father, so, upon Zhao’s next visit in the summer of 1908, Father convinces Zhao to take Carter with him on his circuit. This, the doctor deems, is a way to keep Carter safe from those who would kill him for his Ishvalan blood, and it provides the boy with an opportunity to learn a trade. However, this prospect is no more desirable to Carter than it had been the night he’d overheard his father and the two soldiers.

“I don’t want to go!” he protests, fists clenched in determination. “Who will help you in the clinic? I can’t just leave you here alone, Father! You’re still injured!”

And, indeed, though Carter’s wounds had healed well, the same cannot be said for Father. For all of the doctor’s efforts to hide it, there’s something out of place in his back. Bending over, standing and sitting, even walking, all are becoming increasingly difficult for him. Father sighs, knowing he’s been found out, and he ruffles Carter’s hair. “Son, I don’t want you to leave, either.”

“Then don’t send me awa—”

“Let me finish. I don’t want you to leave, but I do this for your safety. I… Carter, I can’t lose _you_ , _too_ — you understand? Once a few years have passed and people have calmed from this senseless hate, you’ll be able to come home.”

Father is right in that, but this truth doesn’t make the parting any less painful. With tears in his eyes, the boy nods and then buries his face in his father’s shirt, arms tightly wrapped around him.

“There, now. Master Zhao will take good care of you, and you’ll be able to learn many things I could never teach you. Try to look at the best of it, my boy.” But Father hugs him back all the same, his voice taut with emotion. The gentle moment suspends, but falls back to the ground of reality all too soon when the herbalist clears his throat.

“We should be on our way.”

“R-Right. Of course. Come, Carter. It’s time.”

It’s agony to leave the warm comfort of his father’s arms, but somehow the boy forces himself. Slinging his bags across his shoulders, Carter shuffles over to Master Zhao. The fellow must take note of his new apprentice’s despondent expression, because this has to be the first time Carter can remember seeing the man smile. It’s not even that much of a smile, but it’s enough to bring a little reassurance to the lad that all will work out. With last goodbyes, the herbalist and his new pupil set out.

Life on the road certainly takes adjusting to, and Carter only manages it out of necessity. Master Zhao runs a tight caravan, after all, and he has little tolerance for inexcusable dawdling. Aside from the boy and the herbalist, there are two others in the small band. Renata is a tall Aerugan woman who immediately commands respect much the way that Master Zhao does (something Carter discovers on day one when she starts assigning him chores and expects not one bit of lip from the boy). A mysterious woman, indeed: the most that Carter learns about her past is that she had once held a high position as an alchemist in a powerful mafia family (which she refuses to name), but had left when confronted by a cruel and tragic incident in said family. Becoming a fugitive, she had crossed paths with Master Zhao and, struck by his purpose to bring healing wherever he went, invited herself into his company.

Jasper, the other member of the band, is a young man a few years older than Carter. With a strong body, dark skin, and eyes so green that they almost seem to _glow_ at night, he inspires a sort of awe in Carter, and, even though Jasper says little, the two get along easily. Hardly ever parted from Jasper’s side is his hunting dog, Huan, who takes a liking to Carter even more quickly than his master does. With this bond formed, Carter learns that Jasper is actually Master Zhao’s adopted son! He had been born into the Xingese slave trade and separated from his twin sister — his only family — at a young age. Aside from staying with his new father out of loyalty and gratitude, Jasper searches for his sister, gathering information at every market or trading post.

The more time that the young Ishvalan spends in this company, the more he sees how little he knows of the world. Every day, he learns some new skill from Jasper or Renata. Master Zhao seems to be a veritable _compendium_ of knowledge, especially when the topic is anything medicinal. No wonder he and Father have gotten along. Carter’s duties as an apprentice begin from the ground-up: carrying sacks of dried herbs, grinding herbs into powders, etc. Only after three months of such seemingly trivial tasks does Master Zhao deem it time to move on to more _scholarly_ studies, namely: alkahestry. Understanding this matter of “the dragon’s pulse” takes a great deal of time for Carter, and it’s a full year before he is able to perform his first successful transmutation. Once cemented, however, this basis of alkahestry leads to steady improvement; the concept of _chi_ especially captures his attention. To bring healing to places unreachable by the means of Amestrian medicine — surely he should take such a skill back to Koblen to share with Father! It may seem a child’s undeveloped dream, but Carter has only ever sought to follow in his father’s footsteps as a doctor. Even travelling with Zhao, Jasper, and Renata is a mere detour (albeit, an enriching one full of adventures that must be told another time).

At the other end of five years abroad, Carter has channeled his training in alkahestry (with a sprinkling of alchemy, thanks to Renata’s eventual willingness to teach him) into a technique of his own. The circle itself is deceptively simple: a ringed pentangle with inscribed words denoting the healing of mind, soul, and body. It is the part of the alchemist wielding the technique which is difficult. By accessing the flow of chi, Carter is certain he can heal not only the body, but also the mind (as much as scientifically possible through the reparation of nerves and the transmission of signals). His purpose in refining this technique is, for all its altruistic applications, a little selfish. The trauma from the night of Mother’s death has never truly faded; suppression can only do so much. Being both the doctor and the patient, the young man is eager to confirm that his studies haven’t been for naught, but such a thing cannot be tested without a willing volunteer, as he hasn’t the first clue how to go about healing his own internal wounds.

It is that dilemma in which Carter finds himself when, in the fall of 1912, Master Zhao receives word from his homeland that their Emperor’s health is declining and departs for Xing with Jasper and Renata. Since Carter is now nearly nineteen, he chooses to return to Koblen. It would be possible to say that much is as it had been, but that would be to ignore the background of ruined houses and shrapnel-ridden fields. Just as the war has never left Carter’s mind, so too has it clung to the land like scar tissue. As he nears home, images of the past overlay his sight, and he can’t help but shiver as he tries to shake them off. Mother had told him to endure, so being mired in thoughts of that night would be a betrayal of her dying wish, wouldn't it? He has to move past this.

Any thought of himself evaporates, however, as soon as he enters the house. Father greets him with a teary smile and beckons him into a hug long overdue… but Carter cannot pull his eyes away from the painfully obvious.

“Y… Your legs…”

Father’s expression does not waver — no doubt he had known that such would be his son’s first question upon returning home. “Oh, that…”

“How long have you been in this condition? Why didn’t you tell me to come home sooner?”

“Carter, Carter—” Gripping his son’s hands, the doctor presses for quiet. “The Havocs have been looking after me, helping me with the clinic. I won’t hear for you taking any blame for this.”

“But—”

“No.”

With tears stinging his eyes, Carter searches for some glimmer of hope he can latch onto, but his eyes keep being drawn to the wheelchair. “Is there anything that can be done?”

Father seems resigned. “There was swelling in my spine that crushed the nerves. It’s receded now, but… the damage has been done.”

For a long moment, the son stares, wondering if he’s heard that correctly. In his distress, he had forgotten the very reason he had come home! He… if his theory is sound, if his technique will work, he can fix this!

“Father!” And he can’t stifle the emotion in his voice. “Please, don’t give up! Master Zhao taught me so much, and I’ve studied hard. I think… no, _I’m sure_ I can heal you!”

And Carter makes good on that assurance. With his father’s trust, he finally has an opportunity to test his technique. It requires many attempts before any success can be measured, but Carter devotes all of his attention and energy to making his father whole. The doctor been hurt in the first place because he’d tried to protect his family, so Carter thinks it his duty, as well as privilege, to make good come from the evil done to his father.

As they progress through Father’s rehabilitation, Carter learns of the goings-on of home and family while he’d traveled. Jean Havoc, who had left Koblen around the same time Carter had to attend the Amestrian Military Academy, had recently graduated and acquired a position in East City. That hardly comes as a surprise — though Jean had never shone with intelligence, he had always been earnest and diligent. Before he had left for the military, he had confided in Carter that he felt, in some way, responsible for the horrible things that had been done to the Ishvalan people, that the least he could do for Carter and his mother would be to work as hard as he can to the betterment of the nation, to make it a place where hate and mistrust can’t cause such suffering again. Where the war had driven most friendships between Amestrians and Ishvalans apart, in the case of these two boys, it had been the opposite.

What surprises Carter much more is the news from Uncle Shou. Not only had he, despite Father’s belief that he would only ever care about alchemy, married and had a daughter in the past five years, but also, he had attained the rank of State Alchemist just this year. Father begrudgingly admits that he may have misjudged his younger brother based on their childhood, as many a fine man has grown from an unusual boy. Before the war, Carter had never heard of State Alchemists, but the major, Armstrong, who had sounded so grieved that night, he had been one, and, from what he remembers, Captain Hughes’s friend, too. And over the past year, as he had ambled around the Eastern countryside, he had learned of yet another State Alchemist. A man called Elric or the Fullmetal Alchemist: _“a hero of the people”_ is how folk would sometimes praise him. Someone who can capture the nation’s attention with kindness… the idea had tugged at the edges of Carter’s imagination before, but now… the seed of a wish takes root.

Father, of course, guesses this wish. By this point, he is has regained the _ability_ to walk, but atrophied muscles can only be cured by exercise, nourishment, and time. Still, it has done Carter’s heart good to see the fruit of his labors in action.

“Son,” says the doctor, rubbing Carter’s shoulder — a sure sign that he’s about to address something important, “You’ve always said you want to be a doctor, but please don’t feel bound to this profession on my account.”

“What brings this on? I love the work you do. I want to save lives and heal people, Father. I am in no way _bound_ by anything other than my own volition.”

Father smiles inquisitively. “Your uncle’s work in alchemy hasn’t caught your attention?”

“It… might have…”

“Carter, you are young. You have plenty of time to work in the medical field. You clearly have a love for alchemy. Should you not pursue it as far as it can take you?” With an encouraging squeeze, he adds, “If your mother were here, I think she would say that to do anything less would be to waste the talents Ishvala has blessed you with, yes?”

That more or less settles the matter. Carter writes to his uncle and receives welcome permission to come to East City and study for a State Alchemist assessment. It seems a little cruel to leave Father again after not even being home for a year, but the doctor shoots down any protest. Even when he sees Carter off, his eyes are aglow with excitement for his dear son.

+.+.+

Even with all the sorts of towns, villages, and cities he had visited on his travels with the Zhao Caravan, nothing in Carter’s experience could prepare him for East City. Even with his uncle’s clearly written directions from the train station to his home, the young man loses his way at least three times before confirming by the address on the gate that he has, indeed, reached his destination. Uncle Shou lives in a house this large? It could easily dwarf the Havocs’ general store! With smoggy city air clouding his brain, Carter crosses the yard and rings the bell. Nothing happens. Maybe they hadn’t heard him? He rings again. And again. Aaand again. On the fifth ring, he hears a sudden clambering from the other side of the door, and is that a dog barking? A moment later, the entrance has been thrown wide, framing a girl of about five or six years old against a backdrop of furry white.

“Hello,” Carter greets with a smile. “Are you Nina?”

The little girl’s eyes light up, as if no stranger had ever known who she was before. “Mhm! Who’we you?”

“I’m Carter. I’m, well, your cousin. Didn’t your father tell you I was coming?”

As often happens with young children, the memory snaps back into place, once prompted adequately. “Ohhhh!” Turning around, she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts with all her might. “ **Daddy!!! Cawtew is Hewe!!!** ”

“Coming!” echoes a reply from deep within the house.

“He’s coming,” Nina relays, as if Carter hadn’t heard her father’s reply as equally as she had. Because she’s so young (and so adorable), he doesn’t point out this fact.

“Is that your dog?” he asks instead.

“Alexandew!” she announces, throwing her arms around the pet and nuzzling into his great furry face. Alexander barks with thunderous contentment.

“May I pet him?”

“Mhm!”

Where Huan had been all the sinew and points of a hunting dog, Alexander is all the mass and fluff of a mountain breed. “He’s a big fellow. Do you play a lot together?”

“Evewy day!”

“That sounds like a lot of fun.”

At that time, Uncle Shou enters the dog lovers’ scene, wiping his hands on a rag. “I’m terribly sorry about that. I got caught up in my work and lost track of the time. How was your journey?”

“Long and bumpy,” Carter admits. Even walking all over East City to find this house hadn’t dealt with all of his aches.

“Nina, dear, let Carter come inside.”

“Kaay~” With the patter of stocking-clad feet, Nina zooms down a hallway, Alexander bounding after her.

“Nina, I’ve told you for the hundredth time to keep the dog tied up—” but she’s already out of hearing. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, I don’t mind! I love children!”

“Well, that’s a relief, then. Usually, I’m able to keep Nina out of adults’ conversations, but sometimes…” He sighs. “It’s been difficult ever since my wife left me.”

 _This_ is news. “I… I’m sorry. It’s a shame I won’t get to meet her, then.”

“Yes. Well… can’t be anything done about that now.” Uncle Shou inspects his nephew from behind round-rimmed glasses. “Is that _all_ your luggage?”

“I’ve… grown accustomed to travelling light.” Besides that, it isn’t as if he has that many worldly possessions. The essential books, enough clothes to last him until laundry, his research notes and writing supplies, a comb, toothbrush? Even that little had filled his satchel and a hefty duffel bag.

“I see.” (What, has he failed some sort of first-impression test?) “Well, come inside. I’ll make us some tea.”

The first thing about the interior of his uncle’s home is that, despite its vastness, there is clutter practically everywhere in sight! This observation seems to catch Shou’s eye, because he comments: “Sorry for all the mess. It’s been like this since my wife left.”

“I’d be happy to help tidy up, if you—”

“No, no, I manage with it quite well. Changing it now would only confuse me, and I need a stable environment to focus.”

Still, every heap of crumpled paper makes Carter cringe. “How do you _find_ anything?”

Shou stifles a snort of laughter. “There’s no need to find anything in that mess. All of my research materials are organized in my study or in my laboratory. _This…_ is just rubbish.”

“Then—”

“You’re a _guest_ here, Carter. I won’t have you becoming a maid.” The odd thing about this comment is that, as much as it conveys his uncle’s concern for Carter’s well-being, it also conveys concern _for himself_. For whatever reason, Uncle Shou doesn’t want him sorting through his mess. Why could that be? Is it possible that this sort of friction is what had caused Father to have such an suspicious opinion of his brother? In any case, Carter curbs his tongue for the time being.

+.+.+

As the days spent in his uncle’s home accumulate into weeks and weeks into months, Carter grows in confidence of his chances at becoming a State Alchemist. His research could be of _great_ help, not only to the military, but to the general public! In his excitement, the young man sometimes overflows with the need to converse, and, when Uncle Shou isn’t snared as his partner, that leaves only Nina. Even so, that’s little loss, for, though Carter cannot extrapolate theories of biological alchemy with his cousin as he can with his uncle, Nina is a sweet girl, and her joyful countenance and boundless energy remind Carter of exactly what he’s striving for: the happiness of others.

One of many examples of Nina’s precious innocence is the day when, after running about the courtyard with Alexander, she approaches Carter with a question: “Tuck—” Carter had suggested that she call him such so that she wouldn’t have to struggle with the r’s of his first name. “—why don’t we match?”

“What do you mean?”

She holds up her small hand and places it palm-to-palm with his. “We don’t match.”

 _Ah_. “Well… people who come from different places sometimes look different from each other. But—” And he draws her hand to his heartbeat. “—We match in here. That’s what’s important. You and I are both people, see?”

“And Alexandew, too?”

He has to laugh at that. “Well, Alexander isn’t a human being, but he _does_ have feelings, which you — as his owner — should pay attention to.”

As if knowing he is the subject of conversation, the dog barks and scampers about.

“He’s happy!”

“Yes, he is. That’s because he loves you very much.”

“Awe you happy, Tuck?”

With a warm smile, Carter lifts her into his arms and plants a little kiss on her cheek, making her giggle. “I’m very happy, Nina. I’m learning thanks to your father, and I’m going to be able to help a lot of people with what I’m learning.”

“I want to help!”

“You do? Well, now, you can help me… let’s see… Oh, I know!” Alexander on their heels, the cousins return to the library, where stacks of books lie _less than organized_ about the floor. “It’s important for an alchemist to keep his workspace tidy so that he can find what he’s looking for — you agree?”

The little girl nods emphatically.

“Then you can help me find where the books go, all right?”

“Yaaay!”

In the midst of this team effort, however, the playful atmosphere evaporates, like the flame of a snuffed candle, when Carter finds an unbound manuscript among the books. _A Theory of Intelligent Chimera_ , by Shou Tucker. He had known that his uncle created chimeras (much to _his_ personal distaste), but never read any of his papers. The date tells him that this is what Shou had presented for his reassessment this past year. Curiosity burns too strongly to ignore, even though a knot coagulates in his stomach as he turns the first leaf. At some point, Nina must realize that the game is over, and she tugs on Carter’s pant leg, mirroring his worried expression.

“Tuck?”

He reads, processes, yet does not understand. Terror hollows out his chest scoop by scoop with every page he scans. It becomes too much. He must act. “I’ll be right back, Nina, okay?” The words have barely left his mouth before he’s practically sprinting across the house to Shou’s study. Maintaining only enough propriety to knock before entering, he drops the manuscript upon his uncle’s desk and levels him with a gaze of horror, even _betrayal_.

“What is this?”

Well, at least he’s startled by the accusation. Carter thinks he would be more frightened if his uncle showed no reaction. Shou recognizes the paper, then regains his calm. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“ _Don’t!_ ” No, he mustn’t shout. “Please, Uncle, don’t lie to me. In this paper, in what you presented for a State Alchemist reassessment, you suggest that the most efficient way to create intelligent chimera is to use _humans_ as the base!”

After licking his lips, Shou interlocks his fingers and exhales with tension. “You must understand something, Carter. As a scientist, I have to look at the matter objectively. Without bias. Without—”

“Without _ethics_ , you mean.”

“It’s just a paper, my boy. Just a _theory_. You can’t possibly think I would implement such a thing?”

“I…” But he _had_ thought, even though he had no reason to. No reason other than vicarious paranoia from his father, based on the mischief of childhood. “…No, of course not. It’s just—”

“Believe me, I don’t derive _enjoyment_ from causing any animal suffering. But I have to support myself, support Nina, and _this—_ “ tapping the manuscript “—is what the military pays for.”

“They endorse cruelty?”

“They endorse results that suit their ends. True, they weren’t exactly thrilled when I handed them a paper instead of a new specimen, but that is where my research had led. They wanted the pinnacle of chimera transmutation, and I couldn’t produce it in reality, so I produced it in _theory_.” With an almost bitter undertone, Shou adds, “But that was nearly a year ago. I won’t be able to get away with speculation a second time. You, though… oh, my boy, a talent like you, they’ll eat right up, like an exquisite pastry.”

“…They will?”

“Oh, yes. Alchemy that can heal their wounded and prevent neurological decay? They’ll love it. Anything to make their soldiers last longer.”

“But that’s not what it’s—”

“It doesn’t matter what you intended it for, Carter. _That_ is what they will _make_ it for. Everything the military does furthers war. Surely _you_ , of all people, know that.”

“But… it doesn’t have to.”

“That may be true, but — until then — we all have to fall in line. You’d do well to remember that before you sell your soul to them, my boy. There’s a reason that State Alchemists are, well… _unpopular_.”

He doesn’t want to hear this. In fact, he’s about to protest further when the door rings. They can both hear Nina on her way to answer it, but these sounds hang in the moment. Standing, Shou puts a hand on Carter’s shoulder. “I’m just trying to look out for you in your father’s stead, Carter. Please, think of my words in the best light, and don’t let the paper bother you so much, all right?”

Carter nods, but the motion is numb, almost unconscious. With a pat, Uncle Shou leads him from the study before parting off for the front door. Still in a daze, Carter returns to the library, hoping that continuing to sort books will clear his mind. Some time later, the library door admits more people. He can hear Uncle Shou and three unfamiliar voices. A man and two boys, perhaps teenagers.

“ _Whoa_ !” one boy exclaims. “This is _incredible_!”

“Feel free to look around,” offers Shou. “I’ll be in the lab.”

“All right, then,” declares the boy, “I’ll start with this shelf.”

“Okay,” says the other, this one sounding younger than the first. “I’ll start from over there.”

“All right, you two,” says the man. “I have to get back to work. I’ll send some of my men to get you before dark.”

A beat of silence.

“He has an amazing ability to focus,” Shou notes. “When he’s reading, he doesn’t even hear the voices around him.”

“Yes. You know he’s not average, becoming a State Alchemist so young.”

Carter’s chest tightens a little. A State Alchemist who’s only a child? His uncle’s cold words regarding the tactics of the military only leave the thought with a bad taste in his mouth. Speaking of, does he detect that same bitter tone in his uncle now?

“I guess geniuses really do exist.”

There is _envy_ in those words. But, no, he really shouldn’t be so paranoid. Uncle Shou has done nothing wrong… so why does he still feel so uneasy?

After the other adults leave, Carter’s curiosity dampens the turmoil of more difficult emotions. Who are these boys, and what are they doing here? He’s about to go inquire when, preceded by a great deal of clanking, someone comes around the corner of the nearest shelf.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was in here!”

“No, no,” Carter is quick to clarify, albeit baffled by the sight he beholds. “I’m the one who didn’t announce my presence!” Armor? Well, everyone has their quirks, he supposes. But still… he’s certain that this boy possesses the younger of the two voices. If the younger is like _this_ , then what sort of person is the elder? “Sorry, my name’s Carter. I’m Shou Tucker’s nephew.”

“Oh, I’m Alphonse Elric. My brother and I—”

“Elric!?” He can’t help but interrupt, excitement drowning out any worries about his uncle. “You’re the Fullmetal Alchemist!?”

His confusion based on appearances is soon untangled, thankfully, and then Nina’s arrival pulls everyone’s attention away. Somewhere amidst all the laughter and barking, Carter does interact with the actual Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward. His presentation is notably different than his brother’s, since he’s about half Alphonse’s size and twice as feisty, but he seems like a good kid, on the whole, and he is undeniably intelligent, even from the little conversation he and Carter are able to carry on between races with Nina and Alexander. Eventually, Carter’s less-youthfulness catches up with him, and he excuses himself from the library for some air and a glass of water. Color him surprised when, upon ambling into the kitchen, who should he find talking with his uncle than—

“Jean?”

The blond shows instant recognition and, twiddling a cigarette between his lips, clasps his hand with an easy-going smile. “Hey! Long time no see, Carter! My mother told me you’d come to East City, but you were studying or something and I shouldn’t bother ya.”

“You wouldn’t have been a bother,” insists Carter. “How are you? How’s military life?” Words which taste sour even as he says them, as Shou’s commentary bubbles in the back of his mind.

“Good! Good! My buddy at the academy is actually on the same squad I am. I’ll have to introduce you. Doing anything next week?”

Carter laughs a little apologetically. “Jean, do I _look_ like I have pressing appointments?”

“No, I guess not,” Jean snorts. “Well, I’ve got to go pick up the Elrics, or Colonel Mustang will have my hide.”

Mustang. He’s heard that name before.

“The Flame Alchemist?”

“That’s the one. He’s practically in charge of the whole Eastern Region.”

“You could have caught him when he was here earlier, Carter,” Shou inputs, as if he’s a little pleased that his nephew hasn’t established significant connections. “Lieutenant Havoc, the library is this way.”

And just like that, the unease returns. Now that he’s read that paper, every undertone, every insinuation, stabs him with discomfort. Just what is his uncle hiding? And what does he plan to transmute for his upcoming reassessment?

+.+.+

“I can still hardly believe that a fifteen-year-old is the Hero of the People I’ve heard so much about.”

Jean lets out a hoot of laughter, which echoes off the walls of the brick buildings as he and Carter proceed down a main street at an easy pace. “Well, you aren’t alone there. Little chief’s ratcheted up quite a reputation. The colonel likes it, though. Makes him look better to have found such prestigious talent.”

“That’s rather selfish of him.”

“Yeah, maybe,” muses the blond, “but, like Edward Elric, the colonel is a lot more than what meets the eye.” Thumping Carter on the back, Jean angles the subject, “Take my friend who we’re meeting: Heimans Breda. Looking at him, you’d think he’s a meathead, but he’s a strategist. He could beat anyone who’d play chess with him in the academy, and he still wipes the floor with challengers now.”

“And he… won’t mind that I’m…”

Jean takes Carter by the shoulders for a little shake. “Listen, no friend of mine is going to do anything but treat you like he would anybody else. Breda’s a good man. You have nothing to be afraid of, okay?”

A little begrudgingly, Carter nods. Even though they hadn’t been bosom companions or anything in childhood, he knows that he can trust Jean to stand up for him, protect him even. It’s true, he has nothing to fear. …Except for the fact that they’re about to walk into a bar. “Jean, I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my life!”

“I’m sure Ishvala will forgive you for _one_ night of celebration. You’ve been working your ass off—”

“Please don’t say _ass_.”

“—and, after your uncle’s gig is out of the way, I’m gonna make sure you get on the colonel’s schedule for your own assessment.”

“Jean, I haven’t even decided if I want an assessment. _You know_ that the military isn’t exactly an _altruistic_ organization.”

One hand on the bar’s front door, Jean faces his friend with a smile. “Maybe not _now_ , but I told you that Colonel Mustang is a complex guy. If you want to change things in the military, he’s the man you want to throw your cards in with.”

With that, they enter. Jean’s prediction about Breda yields true and — despite wary looks given Carter’s appearance by passers-by — the trio hit off well. With enough assurances that one drink won’t knock him flat, the young Ishvalan accepts a beer… and, after tasting it, isn’t sure what all the draw is about. But he drinks it, for the sake of not wasting. Unfortunately, with Breda’s merrymaking, another glass follows. And another. At that point, Carter’s memory of the evening becomes _hazy_. In fact, his next clear thought formulates in a dark, quiet room. A glance around tells him it’s a small apartment.

“Back in the land of the living?” Jean leans over the double bed on which Carter is splayed. “Breda got you pretty hammered, lightweight. Didn’t wanna to leave your uncle to deal with the aftermath, since his reassessment’s so close and all, so I brought you back to my place. Hope that’s okay.”

Carter nods, at which point he realizes how thirsty he is. “Water?”

“Sure. Don’t sit up too quickly, now, ya hear?”

“Yeah, I hear.” But only after the room sways does he settle for rolling onto his side rather than sitting up. Several swigs of water later, Carter’s consciousness clarifies more (though there’s still a sort of ringing in his head, and the one lit lamp in the room seems much too bright when he looks at it). “See, this is why I didn’t want to try alcohol.”

Jean chuckles. “Okay, okay. Guilty as charged. I just wanted to help you have a good time. For someone so friendly, you’re surprisingly unsocial.”

“…It shouldn’t be surprising.”

The catch in Jean’s voice betrays regret for what he’d said. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Carter, I just…” With a heavy sigh, Jean sits on the bed beside him and pulls out a fresh cigarette.

“I never asked: when did you start smoking?”

“Picked it up at the Academy. It was kind of between that and going insane.” The lighter’s spark catches the end, and Jean draws in a deep breath. “They were all such idiots. Everyone wanted to go to war and kill Ishvalans. Made me sick. So, I started wrecking my lungs.” He tries for a smile. “Gonna give me the doctor’s-kid lecture about smoking?”

“No… though I _should_.”

Another chuckle from Jean. After a moment of silence, the blond restarts conversation with a question, “Carter… do you resent me?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“It’s just… I’m kind of to blame for what happened to you. That night, I… I couldn’t stop them.”

“…That’s not your fault.”

“Then whose is it? Isn’t it the fault of every Amestrian citizen who stood by and let such awful things happen?”

This time, Carter manages to sit up without swooning; even so, he has to steady himself on Jean’s shoulder. “You’re my friend. I could never resent you. Besides that, Mother told me not to hate. She said… I would have to endure.” He nearly chokes on a hollow laugh. “And yet, look at me. I opt for living in fear rather than truly trying to move past the horrors. Part of me wants to use my alchemy to forget that night ever happened.”

What he does not expect is for Jean to wrap an arm around him. It’s a bit awkward of a pose, since they’re seated perpendicularly, but the heart of the action comes across even before Jean speaks. “Didn’t I tell you that there’s nothing to be afraid of? No one’s gonna hurt you now. …I wouldn’t let them. I owe you that much, at least.”

“Jean, you don’t owe me anythi—”

“This isn’t just about my guilt, Carter.” Jean puts out his cigarette and shifts to face his friend. “I _want_ to protect you. I feel… I _care_ about you, y’know? So if I can help you with something, _anything_ … please let me.”

The earnest light in Jean’s eyes sends a sort of shock through Carter. He feels the instinct to retreat into a shell and hide tug at his navel — why?

“Tell me something, Carter. Because of what happened that night… are you afraid to be close to someone? … _Intimately_?”

Carter feels his face get hot. “What’s that got to do with anything? It’s not like… I mean…” His gaze shifts to a far corner. “It isn’t as if I’m _conflicted_ about it. I have no desire to… I mean… well, I’m damaged goods, aren’t I?”

“ _That’s_ what I’m talking about!” The shout rattles Carter and draws his attention back to Jean’s face as the other gives him a good shake. “I’m not gonna just sit here and let you think something like that! C’mere.”

“Wh-What?”

“Come here.” And, much to Carter’s incredulity, Jean settles cross-legged on the bed and pats his lap.

“Jean, I don’t—”

“Would you be more comfortable doing it with a woman?”

 _I don’t feel comfortable doing_ **_anything_ ** _with_ **_anyone_ ** _at this point!_ is what he wants to say, but something about Jean’s brand of directness isn’t as frightening. It’s blunt and a little clumsy, yes, but Jean’s intentions are plain: he wants Carter to feel his own worth. By definition, one could even name his efforts _loving_. Still, to share intimacy with another man is… well, a perversion of Ishvala’s creation, is it not? But when he looks at Jean, there is no evil in his face or in his heart. He wants to protect Carter, comfort him even. Perhaps… he can consider this a necessary evil, because Jean is the only person in his life at this time with whom he could remotely imagine feeling comfortable about this. Trauma or no trauma.

Even so, his heart is thundering in his ears as he clasps the hand that Jean holds out to him.


	7. Carter

It had been a rash thing to do. That’s the first thing Carter reasons when he wakes up, huddled in that double bed, his limbs entangled with Jean’s. The problem is, he can’t bring himself to be angry about it. Never would he have predicted it happening, but… he doesn’t necessarily regret the decision. Jean had been careful, _gentle_ , just holding him more than anything else. All this time, he’d been terrified, but… it hadn’t hurt. From the standpoint of a would-be-doctor, he had known that sex is supposed to be a pleasant activity, but it had certainly been difficult to acknowledge that as truth when his only memory of the act had been painful and frightening. Though it would be presumptive to say that his hesitance has dissipated completely, they do say that the first step is the hardest.

Jean’s breath is warm against his forehead, and the sound of his heartbeat stands out clearly against a pattering in the background. Rain, perhaps? Carter doesn’t feel like opening his eyes to investigate just yet. No, it’s much more comfortable to stay right here… But, wait, doesn’t Jean have duties? He’s a soldier, after all! Can he really afford to lay around here?

“Jean? Hey, Jean?”

After a few attempts, he gets a groan of acknowledgment.

“Don’t you have work?”

The blond shifts, pulling Carter closer and kissing his cheek lazily. “‘S my day off.”

Well, now he feels silly for having woken the other for no reason. “Oh… sorry.”

Jean chuckles in good nature. “Hey, ‘s no big. Lookit you: trying to keep me in line, hmm? _Hmm_?”

“I…” Surely he can’t be expected to adapt to this manner of teasing so quickly? “I guess?”

“Pfft, you’re adorable.” After several more kisses (one of which Carter falteringly tries to return), Jean initiates sitting up to assess the day, at which point, Carter finally opens his eyes. Once so, he can’t pull them away from Jean as the other shuffles to the nearest window and peeks outside. “Man, it’s really coming down out there. Good thing the pantry and icebox are pretty stocked. I got no desire to go out into that mess.”

Jean’s words process in a seemingly distant part of Carter’s mind, as he is more fixated on Jean himself. The outline of his muscular body against the feeble light beyond the window, in particular. This is really happening. He’d actually just _slept with_ his friend. _Spontaneously_. Oh, he can feel embarrassment coating his face already, which — as soon as Jean spots him — produces more light laughter from the blond. “Hey now, I didn’t spook ya too much with all this, did I?”

Too red for words, Carter just shakes his head and pulls the sheets up to his nose.

“Aww, Carter… I did, didn’t I?”

Though the younger continues to deny his shock at having landed himself in this situation, the truth becomes somewhat obvious when he hides under the sheets completely. He can hear Jean chortling still, and that only makes it worse.

“Hey, you. C’mon out of there. Is my spell of charming good looks broken just because it’s daytime now? Huh?” By that point, Jean has returned to the bed with a creak of mattress and reached the lump of mortification which is Carter. Moments later, it becomes impossible to remain in that makeshift turtle’s shell, because Jean starts _tickling_ him, of all things. Any hope of maintaining dignity: shot. Soon he’s pinned to the bed by Jean’s weight (and those unrelenting fingers!), halfway between gasping and shrieking with laughter. But one moment is all it takes for things to go wrong, an instant of flashback. Air won’t stay in his lungs, surroundings distort as if collapsing in on him, it’s not Jean on top of him.

“ **S-Stop**!!”

Thankfully, Jean is more attuned than he’d let on. He pulls back, eyes full of apology, giving his Carter space. For the next several minutes, they remain apart, Carter panting and gripping the bedsheet as cold sweat encases him, Jean waiting for permission to approach. Eventually, the panic does subside, but Carter can’t shake off a sense of impending attack. He wants to feel safe again; how can he soonest achieve that?

“…J-Jean…”

“…Yeah? Shit, I’m sorry, Carter. I didn’t mean to scare you even more.”

Back to shaking his head, Carter reaches out to his friend with a trembling hand, which Jean immediately grasps and rubs in tender apology. “It’s… It’s not your fault.” _Ah_ , the warmth of that hand is already grounding him. “ _I_ should be sorry… for being so _fragile_.”

“Hey.” Apparently sensing that it’s safe to come close now, Jean catches Carter’s reluctant eye. “Don’t go doing that pointing-blame-at-yourself thing.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Matching smiles grow on their faces, and the last trickles of fear recede back into Carter’s subconscious.

“Are you okay?” Jean presses, now cradling Carter against his shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

“Maybe some water, but…” Should he really follow this nascent feeling in his gut? One could almost call it an appetite, but can he trust what it hungers for? He’s safe with Jean, he knows that, and yet… should he really let himself develop a bond like this? It can’t last — Jean has to know that, too — but… God Almighty, why doesn’t that seem to matter as they’re looking at each other like this?

“But?” prompts the blond.

A blush returns to Carter’s face; talking about this sort of thing certainly doesn’t come naturally to him. “What… would really help would be if… if…”

Jean seems to catch on, and the hint of mischief returns to his smile. “Hey, now. I promised you I wouldn’t make you do anything, so you’ll have to _tell_ me what you want.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Sorry,” but he’s still chuckling. “Really, though, tell me.”

“I… I want…” _Agh_ , it’s no good. Actions overcoming words, Carter grabs one of Jean’s hands and places it just below his waist.

Leaning into his ear, Jean whispers encouragement: “Do you want me to touch you again?”

That’s it. Surrender is imminent. For all of his striving to live by his beliefs, it would seem he has finally met his vice. Ishvala help him.

At various points, they eat and doze, but most of the day passes in a haze of _exploration_ . It bewilders Carter how _little_ everything outside of this room seems to matter as Jean kisses him, caresses him, coaxes sounds and shivers out of him. He doesn’t even seem to care that he’s bewildered! Just as last night, Jean is slow and careful, checking every few minutes that Carter hasn’t been sucked into past horrors. Only after Carter has returned to earth from his second climax does he realize something important.

“Jean… _you_ ha… haven’t…”

“Hey, don’t worry about me,” the blond is quick to interject as he wipes himself off with tissues. “I’m enjoying myself just pampering you.”

“But… doesn’t it hurt like that?” A shared glance to the the state of Jean’s… well… it’s indication enough.

“Oh, well…” Trying to laugh it off, Jean fishes in a drawer and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “It might.”

“Jean.”

The other ignores, giving his full attention to a deep breath of lit tobacco.

“ _Jean_.”

“Look, I told you I wasn’t gonna make you do anything you didn’t wanna do, didn’t I? I’m not gonna just use you to get off!”

Maybe it’s the alchemist in him, but Carter can’t let such an unfair situation stand. “But isn’t that what _I’ve_ been doing just now?”

“That’s different. I offered.”

“And what if _I_ offer?”

Jean fixes him with somber eyes. No jokes this time. “I’m not going to do anything that could send you into a fright. I won’t risk hurting you.”

“You won’t! I… I won’t have a flashback, I promise.”

“It’s too soon.”

“Isn’t that _my_ choice to make?” Somehow, he’s gotten on his feet. Not even caring that he’s naked, Carter practically stomps over to his (much taller) friend and returns the solemn gaze. “Neither of us want me to be trapped in fear for the rest of my life, right? So, help me. I _want_ to do this with you. As long as you talk to me, as long as you remind me where I am, I won’t get lost. I won’t.”

With a long sigh, Jean moves his cigarette to one hand and runs the other through his already-tousled hair. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“…Okay.”

For all of Jean’s worrying, nothing goes awry when their bodies next meet. If anything, Carter feels the rush of pleasure more quickly as he watches Jean give in to his own need, rather than thinking only of bringing Carter to climax. Every movement is together, so that even their breathing seems to synchronize. They rock, they gasp and grasp at each other in turn, and though Jean’s grip on him grows firmer, and his movements faster, as he chases their mutual end, not once does Carter feel as if he is in danger of harm. Even after the rush passes, they simply lie in each other’s arms, sharing slow kisses and savoring the feel of skin against skin. Only when Jean complains of getting sore from propping himself up does he break the seal and let tepid midday air come between them.

“Well,” he sighs, running a sweaty hand through blond hair as he sits back with an accompanying creak of springs, “hopefully I did okay.”

Carter’s confirmation is a warm smile and a breathless laugh, quickly returned by Jean. The moment, however, suffers the sudden and rude interruption of a ringing telephone. After scrambling to answer it, Jean gives several short affirmative responses to whoever is on the other end, his expression growing increasingly solemn.

“What is it?” Carter asks as soon as the receiver is returned to its base. He’s up now and fishing around in the sheets for his pants.

At first, he gets no response, but after a long pause, Jean faces him with a forced smile. “They need me to come into the office. So much for my day off.”

“Oh… guess it’s a good thing they didn’t call ten minutes ago.”

That brings the glimmer of genuine mirth to blue eyes. “Yeah, sure is a good thing.” As the soldier dons his uniform, he voices a request: “Carter… will you please stay here?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve seen enough ugliness in the world. I don’t want you to have to see any more.”

Though the protective implications of that comment have him flushing, Carter still doesn’t understand what’s going on. “I could just go home, then—”

“You really shouldn’t.” And Jean’s voice is unexpectedly firm. “Your uncle doesn’t seem to like distractions, and… if it’s okay to say this, I think your presence aggravates him.”

Carter bites back a retort because, on further thought, Jean has a point. The longer Carter had lived with his uncle, the less and less Shou had seemed to enjoy putting him up — _especially_ after Carter had found that research paper.

“Best leave him be until this reassessment mess is over.”

“…Okay.”

Now fully dressed, Jean catches Carter round the waist and hugs him tightly. “I shouldn’t be too long. …Can I kiss you goodbye?”

Ah, there it is again: a constriction in his chest reminding him that this can’t last. Still… is it so wrong of him to want to make the most of this _relationship_ while he can?

“…Mhm.”

When Jean eventually pulls himself away from that kiss and leaves for Eastern Command, Carter basks in the silence for as long as he can stand. For the rest of the afternoon, then, he busies himself with tidying up the apartment. (Since Uncle Shou had forbidden Carter from playing maid at the house, his organizational urges have been constrained for months!) Once occupied thus, time races, so that Carter hasn’t even finished by the time the lock of the door clicks around sunset.

“Welcome back!” Unfortunately, his cheery greeting meets a Jean wet, wan, and quiet. He doesn’t even attempt eye contact with Carter as he shuts the apartment door, which leaves the ball of conversation in Carter’s court. “Jean? Are you… okay?”

Without warning, Jean whirls, encasing Carter in a hug even tighter than the one they’d shared earlier. And, once that rush of movement settles, it becomes clear that Jean is trembling.

“…Jean?”

“Shh. Just… just let me keep protecting you.”

What brings on such a plea? Had something happened at Eastern Command? Does it have to do with what Jean had said before about wanting Carter not to witness any more of the world’s ugliness? In any case, he chooses not to protest. After all… it’s nice for someone to want to protect him, and not just because of their differing cultures or as recompense for assumed guilt, but because Jean cares about him. …Yeah, it’s much better to soak in Jean’s warmth and wait for him to speak when he’s ready… which doesn’t come for quite some time.

“…Can we forget about everything else for a while?”

Albeit not the informative conversation starter Carter had hoped for, he can certainly understand the wish to block out life’s troubles, so… “Sounds great.”

Whatever’s going on, he trusts that Jean will be honest with him, given time.

+.+.+

“But shouldn’t I at least get my stuff? I didn’t exactly come over prepared to _stay_.”

“I can pick them up for you. There’s really no need for _you_ to go.”

This makes the sixth time that Jean has diametrically opposed Carter’s offhanded suggestion to visit his uncle’s. Once or twice could have been brushed off as a kind gesture, but this… “Jean… what aren’t you telling me?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You’re not exactly a good liar.”

“Hey! Neither are you! I’m just trying to pr—”

“To protect me, I know, but I think there’s a difference between protecting me and hiding things from me. I’m not a child anymore.”

“Barely.”

“Just what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Though not apologetic in the slightest, Jean seems to reason that this tactic is non-ideal, because he fishes in his pocket for the first smoke of the day.

“Jean, you’re killing yourself with those things!”

“You aren’t the boss of me,” the blond retorts as he lights the cigarette.

“No, I’m just supposed to be your… your _lover_ or something!” Saying it aloud leaves a lump of guilt in his throat so thick and heavy that he wonders if it intends to pull him down to his knees to pray for forgiveness. “If you want me to stay, then you can’t shut me out!”

Jean sighs, expelling a small cloud into the otherwise stale air. “Fair enough. …Who am I kidding, anyway? You’ll find out eventually. Okay, let’s go to HQ.”

Now he’s even more confused. Even when Jean explains that they need to get Colonel Mustang’s permission in order to go back to the Tucker estate, he won’t say _why_. Nonetheless, dread pools in Carter’s stomach as if his blood is slowly trickling from some internal wound. Dread which only spreads when, before they’ve even climbed the rain-slicked front steps of Eastern Command, a flock of soldiers storms out with a grim aura.

“Colonel!” Jean locks eyes with the head of the pack, a dark-haired man with cunning eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Walk with me, Havoc.” More like _“jog with me, Havoc”_ but, in any case, Jean falls in step with his commander. Carter, meanwhile, isn’t sure if he should follow — if he’s _allowed_ to follow — but one among the others in the group catches his attention, spurring him to catch up.

“Captain Hughes!”

The bespectacled man responds to his name, but recognition doesn’t register in his expression as Carter reaches him. “I’ll have you know, son, that I haven’t been a captain since the war.”

“Uh… Mr. Hughes—” He’ll have to ask Jean to teach him how to recognize a soldier’s rank. “—do you remember me? We met near the end of the war. You and Major Armstrong helped my family.”

It takes a while, especially since both of them are still trying to keep up with Colonel Mustang and his team. But then: “I’ll be damned. Well, since you’re still alive, I guess your old man took our advice. I’m glad. Sorry that we can’t catch up now. Some kid State Alchemist might be a serial killer’s next target.”

Well, there’s only one kid State Alchemist. “Edward’s in trouble?”

“You know him? Small world.” Then, something seems to surface in his memory. “Oh… shit, your name’s Tucker, right?”

“Yes, but why do you ask?”

Something awful is confirmed in those light eyes. “I guess no one’s told you.”

“Told me what?”

“Carter!” Jean’s holding open a car door and beckoning with broad sweeps.

“Ah! Sorry, Mr. Hughes. We’ll talk later?” He doesn’t even wait for the soldier’s hesitant _“Sure”_ before sprinting to Jean and sliding into the back of the car beside him. “So, who’s this serial killer who might be after Ed?”

“Dunno. We don’t have a name. Only description is that he has a large scar on his forehead, so _Scar_ is the nickname he’s earned in Investigations.” Eyes chilling with focus, Jean lifts and cocks a rifle. “But no way are we gonna let him lay a hand on the little chief.”

Carter doubts that Edward would appreciate having _“little”_ placed in that otherwise-cool sentence, but he knows now isn’t the time to point out such minutiae. “Uh, so why am I here?”

“You can heal injuries, so if Ed’s hurt, we’ll need you. Plus… I’ll just feel better having you here with me than on your own with a serial killer running around.”

“Oh, r-right.” Since that’s the case, he immediately checks that his on-hand array, which he’d inked into a long strip of cotton wound around his left forearm, remains functional. A quick inspection tells him that the circle is intact; he’ll just have to hope that his willpower under pressure can have the same tenacity.

Adrenaline comes to a peak when the driver brakes and everyone piles out of the caravan of cars. Once again at the spearhead of blue is Colonel Mustang, breaking through the patter of rain with the harsh crack of a handgun. “ _That’s enough._ ”

They’d made it in time. Edward looks drenched, and his automail arm has been shredded, but he’s alive and otherwise unharmed. Looming over him is a brawny man with brown skin and white hair. As much as Carter doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, he can’t help but wonder if, were he not wearing sunglasses, his eyes would be red.

The colonel keeps the suspect’s attention with conversation, albeit addressing Edward: “That was pretty close, Fullmetal.”

“Colonel! He’s—”

“That man is suspected in the serial killings of State Alchemists. And, judging from what I’m seeing, that suspicion just became fact. Let me guess… The murder at the Tucker estate: that was you, too?”

Up to this point, Carter had patiently and quietly waited by the cars, knowing that he’s hardly on a level capable of being useful in a fight. But when Mustang speaks of a murder… when pieces of what Jean and Mr. Hughes had let slip fit together, horror pulls him to his feet. Barely two paces into his mindless charge toward the front-line (and Jean), however, he is yanked to one side by Hughes.

“Don’t be a fool, son. You’ll just get yourself killed by a psycho like that.”

“But—”

Hughes’s expression softens with pity. “I’m sorry that Roy rattled off like that. That’s no way to learn about your relatives’ deaths.”

Deaths? As in more than one? “Please, Mr. Hughes, tell me what happened!”

“Keep your voice down!” hisses the soldier, scooting the both of them further from the open street where yells rebound off the brick surfaces (namely: Mustang, Scar, Mustang’s aide, and Major Armstrong — such a booming voice could only belong to him). Once composed, Hughes recounts the incident. “By the time Armstrong and I arrived in East City this morning, the Tuckers had been murdered, along with their armed guards. This Scar guy made a real mess of it, too.”

It’s a good thing that Hughes is already holding him back, because Carter knows he’s trembling as this information washes over him. “So… my uncle…”

“Yeah. His daughter, too. …I’m sorry, son.”

But these are just words. He can’t picture it, can’t see Nina stretched out and still, Alexander whining softly and licking her face as he waits for her to wake up and play with him. Why? If this killer targets State Alchemists, then why had he seen fit to end the life of an innocent girl? He has to know. He has to ask this man and learn the truth. …No, more than that. He has to make this Scar pay for such an act of heartless cruelty. Not once do his mother’s last words cross Carter’s mind as vengeance stains his mind red.

Things seem to escalate in the street, until the ground itself shakes.

“That maniac went into the sewers!” Jean shouts.

“Don’t go after him, Havoc.”

“You think I’m chasing _him_ down _there_!?”

After giving Carter a consoling rub of the head, Hughes stands and sticks his head out into the street: “Hey, is it over?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Hughes… Where have _you_ been this whole time?”

“ _Hiding_ ! If things went bad, _someone_ had to live to tell the tale!”

Orders are barked back and forth, and soldiers hup to and fro, but Carter doesn’t move until Jean finally comes over to put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey! Are you—”

“No, I’m not okay.” Even as that cold reply spills from his lips, action formulates. The killer’s gone into the sewers? Well, then, that’s where he’s going. Jean keeps trying to catch his eye, but Carter determinedly avoids him, afraid that Jean will see right through him otherwise. Thankfully, the blond seems to understand that Carter, having overhead Mustang’s completely tactless announcement of the Tuckers’ murders, doesn’t want to talk, so he stands (presumably to go help corral the Elric brothers). In a moment’s decision, Carter grabs Jean’s pant leg, close enough to his pocket that he can slip two fingers in and secure Jean’s lighter. In order to keep him from noticing this, Carter risks meeting his gaze. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so harsh. I just… I need time to process this… okay?”

Jean looks somewhat close to tears, but he nods and even cups Carter’s face for a moment. Then he’s gone, leaving only his lighter behind. While everyone’s attention is on the Elrics, Carter approaches the dark maw by which Scar had marked his hasty exit. Since he can’t clearly make out the bottom, he’ll have to hope that it isn’t very deep to the sewers. After one last check to ensure no one will see and stop him, he drops. Thankfully, his hope is rewarded: despite an unpleasant sting of shock to his legs upon landing in the murky water, that will wear off after before too long. Once he’s out from under the rainfall, Carter opens the lid of Jean’s lighter and clicks the little gear until a spark catches. At least now he won’t have to worry about the killer sneaking up on him in the dark… assuming that he can even catch up to the man.

Trudging through the sewers gives Carter time to think. Why is he doing this again? To avenge Nina and Uncle Shou! But _why_ ? Ah, yes… _now_ his mother’s last instructions surface. Vengeance is God’s work, so what is he really trying to accomplish here? Perhaps… it’s as simple as wanting to know. Knowledge leads to understanding, and understanding to forgiveness. Not that Carter feels anywhere close to being able to forgive the man who’d murdered most of his remaining relatives, but he must at least look to the ideal for guidance. He’s been hypocritical enough today without adding bitterness to the list of grievances.

“So,” he muses, since speaking his thoughts makes them easier to analyze, “in conclusion, I want to know why this man is killing, so that I can come to understand his reasons… and set aside my hate for him.” Still… at the moment, this sounds like an impossible task.

That’s when movement catches his eye. Carter points the lighter in its direction, freeing his left hand if he needs to transmute (assuming he can even do so successfully in a moment’s pinch). With his breathing forcibly steady, Carter approaches the shifting shadow.

“Don’t come any closer.”

He immediately stops moving.

“I heard you just now. You want to know about me?”

Well, consider him abashed. “Y-Yes. I do.”

He can make out tiny reflections from the lighter’s flame in a pair of eyes. With a few sloshing sounds Carter’s only warning, Scar’s face gradually comes into view. “I would think it would be obvious, my young kinsman.”

He hadn’t been jumping to conclusions, then! This man is Ishvalan! “So… you kill because of the war? Because of what the Amestrians did to us?”

“That is correct. It is God’s will that State Alchemists and those who would protect them should perish.”

Carter chews on his lip, anxiety leaving his limbs tense as he does his best to remain alert. “And yet… somehow this quest of righteous vengeance sees fit to kill a little girl? Nina Tucker. She was my cousin, and you murdered her and her father.”

“…I killed no child. Shou Tucker received the wrath of Almighty God, and the abomination he had created, I put out of its misery. An act of mercy.”

“…What abomination?” Hughes had said nothing of this. A chimera, perhaps?

“A pitiful creature, neither animal nor human. …It did, however, refer to Tucker as its father.”

Shock clenches at Carter’s heart. _No… No, it can’t be… Shou wouldn’t have…_

“Of all the State Alchemists I have slain, none have filled me with the assurance that my work is just as did Shou Tucker. Men who could do such twisted things should not be allowed to live.” Scar casts a penetrating gaze at Carter. “Now you know. Do you still hate me, boy?”

“…I don’t,” the young man must admit, “but that doesn’t mean that I think what you’re doing is right. It… it isn’t man’s place to decide who lives and who dies.” An anger he can’t place hardens his expression and heavies his breathing. “You… would presume to do God’s work for him? You would involve people like Edward Elric, who had nothing to do with the war, and call your thirst for blood divine vengeance!?”

“It matters not that the Elric boy was not a State Alchemist during the war. If he would give his soul to a corrupt system stained with blood, then he is equally guilty.”

It’s about all Carter can do to stop from shaking with what he can only think of as righteous fury. “And what about me? You say I am your kinsman, and yet I wanted to become a State Alchemist! Would _I_ then be guilty for the death of our people?”

Though Scar pauses before answering, his voice never wavers: “To protect the fragment of our living brethren, I would have no choice but to take your life, were you to continue down such a path.” The fingers of his right hand tense, as if he is channeling energy to his palm. A form of alchemy? “Do you still wish to become a military dog, boy?”

“…If I could help change this country for the better, I would, even if that would mean becoming a State Alchemist.”

Scar scowls. “What is your name?”

“Carter.”

“I do applaud your honesty, Carter Tucker, but you are a fool if you think anything but wickedness can come from this country.”

Words shoot to Carter’s mouth before he gives any time to rethinking them. “And _you’re_ a fool for thinking that wickedness is the _only_ thing that can come from it!”

Faster than his eyes can follow, Scar grabs him by the left arm. A moment later, Carter’s sleeve tears itself apart, and he feels the tingle of energy raise every hair on his body. That proves it: this man is an alchemist! As quickly as before, Scar shoves Carter away, his red eyes illuminated by the flickering glow of Jean’s lighter, still clutched tightly in Carter’s right hand.

“This is my final warning. Leave and abandon any idea of being a State Alchemist, and you may keep your life.”

He’ll have to be quick. If this doesn’t work, he’s finished. Widening his stance for better support, Carter clears his mind as Renata and Master Zhao had taught him, using each breath to calm himself. For all of the doubt he had confided in Jean, in this moment, Carter feels as certain as he ever has. “I’ve been as good as dead once before… and one of the people who saved me was a State Alchemist. I will not turn from this path.”

“Very well. May God have mercy upon you.”

In the instant Scar rushes, Carter drops the lighter and fixes his eyes upon the hand of destruction. Just as the palm touches his forehead, he grips Scar’s wrist and shoots chi into his attacker, attempting to block the pathways of energy. He can only do so for an instant, however, because pain tears across his body as skin peels away in chunks, exposed muscles spray blood, and organs groan with strain beyond endurance. His knees seize up, and weight pulls him down into the filthy water, where only the lip of a nearby service sidewalk saves him from going under entirely. As he lies there, clutching at the stone and sucking in ragged breaths, Carter’s wide eyes search for Scar’s face in the dark. After a moment, the killer sets off a subsequent reaction, momentarily illuminating him and destroying a chunk of sidewalk mere feet from Carter’s head. Well, if _that’s_ what had been supposed to happen to _him_ , then his counter-transmutation must have worked, in part. He simply hadn’t been able to block all of the energy.

“If you had not interfered,” says Scar, presumably now standing over Carter, from the direction of his voice, “your death would have been quick. It is not my intention to make a brother suffer. But… perhaps this is simply your punishment for being so deceived by those who would slaughter us.”

“M-Maybe…” He pauses to cough out a mouthful of blood. “I guess… I’ll be seeing God before you do, kinsman. I’ll… have to ask him… which one of us is right.”

“…I will give you time to repent of your folly before you die. May Ishvala forgive you and welcome you into everlasting peace.”

The sounds of retreating movement fade as the throbbing of Carter’s own pulse dominates his lingering senses. He’s really going to die here, isn’t he? He can practically hear the way Jean would chide him: _“Once again, you acted on impulse! You’re such an idiot sometimes, Carter! You go and die and leave your old man alone! Great thinking there, genius!”_ But then the Jean of his imagination softens, stooping beside him in the dark and brushing bloodied bangs away from his face. _“And what about me? You’re really gonna leave me, too? What’s with that? …Don’t go, Carter. You said you’d let me protect you. I’ve barely even started! C’mon, let’s go back.”_

 _“Yeah! Let’s go, Tuck!”_ Without any traceable light source to explain the clarity of her form, she appears beside Jean and holds her hand out to Carter, a smile stretched across her round face.

“…Nina…”

_“C’mon! Youw mommy’s waiting! She’s supew nice, playing with me and Alexandew so we don’t get lonely, and she sent me to come get you!”_

“Mother…” He can see it now: a pinprick of light in the dark. There’s the faint trace of a voice calling his name. With a trembling hand, Carter clasps Nina’s tiny one as he forms a weak smile, as fading consciousness seems to lift him toward the distant light. It’ll be all right now. He’s going home.

+.+.+

He can hear voices around him, reverberating in the dark like phantoms. In the midst of the numbness that encases him, pain erratically punctures through, and, with every jab, he floats closer and closer to the surface. This… isn’t death, right? Death should mean no more pain. But Nina… where had she gone? Had she left him behind after all? Had Jean pulled him back?

“Thanks for letting me stick around here, sir.”

“Sure thing, Havoc. Just know you’ll have a heap of work to get back to afterward.”

“Joy.”

“Speaking of, I’m out. Hopefully, in my report, I can downplay the part where the State Alchemist program’s bright young star almost had his head exploded.”

“Good luck, sir. And… thanks again.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

A door closes. The shifting of fabric tells him that Jean is close, a guess confirmed when he finds his hand in Jean’s once feeling seeps into his limbs. He’s also pretty certain that there’s a needle in his arm — a hospital, then. But how had he gotten from bleeding out in a dark sewer to _here_?

The same door squeaks open. “Hey.” Is that Edward?

“Hey, chief. Come to visit?”

“Yeah. Al wanted to come, too, but… he’s kinda in a crate right now, so I’m here for both of us before we leave for Resembool.”

“Well, don’t just stand there in the door, chief. Pull up a chair.”

Ed must do so, because the telltale scraping of chair legs against floor soon follows.

“Is… Is he gonna be okay?”

“You bet. Carter may not look it, but he can be a scrapper.”

The boy manages a laugh, but his heart isn’t behind it. Then silence hovers for several beats. “…So… I guess he found out, huh…”

“Yeah. The colonel wasn’t exactly _whispering_ about it out there.”

“Damn…” Ed sighs. “Well… I’m glad he didn’t find out until it was all over. I’m glad… that he didn’t have to see her that way, after what that bastard did to her.”

“Me, too. …Are _you_ gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Always am.”

“…Whatever you say, chief.” Clearly, Havoc is skeptical of Edward’s insistence, but neither pursues the subject further.

“Do the doctors know when he’s gonna wake up?”

“Well, he did lose a lot of blood. They said it could take a day or two. Even after he wakes up, he’ll have to stay in here until they discharge him, so maybe it’s better for him to sleep through most of it, hmm?”

“Maybe… Well, Al’s waiting for me. And… the major.”

“Hey, chief. Don’t go discounting the major. He won’t let anything happen to you boys. ‘Kay?”

“…’Kay.”

As he’s listened, the heaviness on his body has decreased. He can sense every breath, painful as each may be, and he tries to open his eyes.

Ed must notice him, because he gasps. “—! Havoc.”

“I’ll be damned. Carter?”

The light beyond his crusted eyelids is much too brutal, but he manages to squint for a moment before clenching eyes shut again with a wince and a dry groan.

“Hey, can you hear me, Carter?”

Well, it’s been some time since he’s had a throat this dry — brings back memories of desert travel. Still, he humors Jean with a gravelly, “…Yeah…”

“Okay, I’ll go get the nurse. Just… I’m so glad you’re awake. You scared me to death, you idiot.” And he feels the momentary press of Jean’s lips to his forehead. Then two pairs of footsteps stride and shuffle, respectively, to the door.

“Uh… what was _that_ about?”

“What was what?”

“You kissed him.”

“Hey, now, you can keep a _secret_ , right, chief?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Good man.”

That’s the last he makes out before the door closes and muffles Jean’s and Ed’s voices. Within a few minutes, a nurse comes in and makes a fuss over him, but Carter can already feel drowsiness dragging him down by the time she finishes. Sleep is when the body heals most, Father always says. Probably isn’t surprising, then, that, as soon as he makes sure that Jean will ease up on guarding his bedside and return to work, he slips under again.

+.+.+

Incandescent light isn’t so painful the next time he wakes up. Within two days, Carter can be propped up without a nurse descending upon him with shouts of horrified protest, but Ishvala forbid that he try setting one foot out of that bed! After nearly a week of hospital life, Carter has reached a state of eternal gratitude that his father had traded this dull, overly-sterilized workspace for the sunny, earthy surroundings of a desert village, but even this tiny pocket of enlightenment cannot save him from the bland silence of his room. Once, he had even asked to be moved to a public ward, but Jean had shot this suggestion down, since even now there are plenty of soldiers who would love a chance to slit an unsuspecting Ishvalan’s throat. Which leaves Carter with the white walls and droning background chatter. In that time, his thoughts turn all too easily to the terrible recent events. Is this how he’s _always_ going to process personal tragedies? With fear and guilt? If only this, if only that — it never ends, it never changes anything, and it never leaves him feeling a whit better!

Not even Jean’s news that Colonel Mustang has passed Carter’s eventual intention to become a State Alchemist along the military grapevine can keep his spirits above the slough of despair. Even his faked smiles fail to hold up as of late. Sooner or later, Jean’s going to press him; it’s just how he is. Well, guess this means he has _that_ to look forward to.

As he is mulling over this very doom, a knock rouses him. On the other side of the door, looking in at him through the run-of-the-mill inset window, is a startlingly beautiful woman. For a moment, Carter theorizes that she’s a well-shaped — that is, a well- _formed_ — hallucination, but when she enters and continues to make contact with physical surfaces, he can’t chalk her up to imagination.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” is her greeting sweetly intoned, yet radiating a peculiar sort of power. This is a woman who commands respect. Not that she seems undeserving of it: she shows a gleam of cunning behind her otherwise benign smile.

To his own bewilderment, Carter makes a _joke_ , raising his hands in indication of his current state. “I’m booked, but I think I can find an opening for you.” Hopefully it isn’t strange or in some way insulting to her that he isn’t stumbling over his words like a fool. That is, _yes_ , she’s quite breathtaking, and he can feel a little red rising to his cheeks, but he has no reason to react to her as he would to, well, _Jean_ (since Jean is the only person who’s gotten him flustered in earnest).

The woman alights in one of the provided chairs and faces him with that seemingly innocuous expression. “I’m a representative for the State Alchemist program. My name is Solaris.”

“Oh! R-Right, yes. That is—” With an apologetic look, Carter again gestures to his predicament. “—I wouldn’t be eligible anytime _soon_ , but…”

She chuckles, not a trace of concern shown. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Tucker. I’m simply… scouting things out.” Without a beat of hesitation, she rationalizes, “You understand, I’m sure. With the recent downturn of your uncle, we want to avoid any similar incidents.”

“I would _never_ do something so cruel!” Again, Carter surprises himself at the volume, the _ferocity_ of his outcry. Indeed, in that burst of fury, he had leaned toward Solaris, hands gripping the edges of his cot to keep himself from losing balance. For the sake of politeness, he swallows back any further shouting, but intensity does not leave his tone as he presses crucial distinction: “Please, do not assume any similarity between Shou Tucker and myself.”

“…I see.” Composure easily regained, Solaris nonetheless seems to be scanning him, trying to detect other pressure points — but so as to avoid them or to aggravate them, he can’t say. “I must, however, point out our other concerns. Your Ishvalan blood, for example.”

The last thing he wants to discuss, so perhaps he can cut the issue short. “It didn’t matter to Scar that he and I share blood, but it does to the military?”

Her smile curls, as if she is genuinely amused by his blunt demeanor. After a moment’s consideration, she leans toward him a hair. “Between the two of us, it doesn’t matter one bit. What matters is your _willingness_ to serve this country and your _ability_ to do so. I’m here to assess your skills. Colonel Mustang didn’t pass along much. Could I have… a demonstration?”

So she had simply wanted to prod a tender spot to gauge his reaction? He would get angry about that if the immediate concern of answering the call for a display of alchemy didn’t take precedence. “Oh… um…” Perhaps it’s a small blessing that he’s in a hospital, because bandages are in no small supply. Grabbing an abandoned pen from his bedside table, Carter draws his array on his left forearm’s wrappings. “The technique heals injuries in the nervous system — paralysis, brain damage — but… in theory, it should also be able to do subtler things like recalling forgotten memories.”

Solaris raises an eyebrow. Hopefully, that’s a sign that he’s caught her interest.

“Could I have your participation?”

“…All right.” And, though her eyes narrow a cautious fraction, she places her hand in the one he offers her. The instant she does so, however, a peculiar sensation seems to bleed into him through the contact. It’s as if he can suddenly hear someone screaming in the distance… no, not a single person, a multitude: quiet enough that he could ignore it if he chose, but loud enough that, when focused on, it sends a chill through him.

“Is something wrong?” asks the completely unperturbed Solaris.

“N-No. Sorry.” It’s probably just a trick of the mind. He has to concentrate. Impressing this woman could be his ticket to becoming a State Alchemist, a spider’s thread out of his dark chasm. Deep breaths. Visualize the nerves connecting, the chi disentangling. A distant memory, something from childhood, perhaps. Once he feels as certain as he’ll get, Carter releases his chi in a short, directed burst. A twitch from Solaris proves that she feels some result, but he keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds longer, so he has no way of knowing in that span how effective he’s been, until—

“…Memory recall, you said?”

He lifts his head and meets her eyes. Such an unusual color… a red of sorts, but more pink than his own. Her thick lashes make closer inspection difficult, so he refocuses attention on her words. “Y-Yes. Did it work?”

She seems to be chewing on her reply. If she had seen anything, it seems to have been something she doesn’t feel comfortable sharing. That’s not so outlandish; few people would disclose personal memories to a stranger, himself included. Still, he would like _some_ confirmation.

“…It did. How _curious_.” She does smile at him, so that, at least, is a positive sign. With a tone halfway between playful and commanding, she adds, “May I have my hand back?”

“Oh! S-Sorry.” He hadn’t even realized that he’d begun to squeeze her fingers with his.

“Thank you.” She stands and smooths out the front of her skirt. “That’s a fascinating skill you have. It’s been quite some time since a State Alchemist focused on a _healing_ technique. I’d say… you have talent worth pursuing, Mr. Tucker. I do, however, have a final question: why would you help a country that has done you such wrong?”

“That does seem to be everyone’s question, doesn’t it…” Hopefully his thoughts can fit together into coherent sentences. “I… believe it would be a waste to let my life be consumed by hate. I’d much rather try to make this country a better place for the future than punish it for a past that can’t be undone.”

Solaris nods. “Very noble aspirations. You’re quite the altruist. I think… that’s exactly the sort of person we’re looking for. Thank you for your time, Mr. Tucker.” At the door, however, she pauses and looks back, though her gaze seems elsewhere in spirit. ”If ever you come to Central, perhaps we could talk again.”

“Oh, uh, all right. Yes, certainly.”

His awkward reply has her chuckling again. “It’s a date, then.” And she winks once before letting the door swing closed behind her.

+.+.+

“I’m telling you, she was real!”

“All right, all right, I believe you! Don’t get all _excited_ . You’ll rip your stitches, and then you’ll have to stay in here _another_ week.” Still, Jean isn’t quite done teasing (which is a feat, unto itself, since Colonel Mustang has had him tied to searching for Scar’s body in rubble for the past day-and-a-half). “How come she couldn’t have come ‘round when _I_ was here, though, huh? You said she was pretty?”

“She was _beautiful_ . And she had this _air_ , like she took control of the room the moment she stepped inside.”

“Pretty _and_ powerful. Damn~” After soaking in whatever sort of person he has imagined Solaris to be, Jean leans in and nudges his shoulder. “Still, did she ever show you official ID? What if she’d been an assassin?”

“ _Please_ , Jean, as if anyone would put in the trouble to assassinate _me_.”

“I mean it. You’re way too trusting. Just look at the mess that’s gotten you int—” He stops as soon as he registers the topic this comment breaches on, but all the possible exchanges pass between their locked eyes.

“You’re right,” says Carter. “I’m trusting. I like to think good of people, that’s all.” With perhaps a little more bitterness than intended, he adds, “ _You_ didn’t seem to mind how easily I trusted _you_.”

The mark hit, Jean wilts, and silence suffocates the room until he speaks again. “Do you regret trusting me?”

“…I want to. If… If I hadn’t let you talk me into it, then I would have been _there_. I could have done something to stop him. I knew what he was capable of — I knew, and yet… If only I'd been there, Nina might still—” Before he can finish, Jean has pulled him into a hug with such momentum that Carter fears that he’ll fall out of bed. “J-Jean, what—”

“I just… I can’t stop thinking that, if you had been there, he might have done what he did to _you_ . I keep dreaming about it, and…” Jean trembles, as if holding back a sob. “If you want to yell at me for what happened, _fine_ , but don’t… _please_ , don’t wish you’d been _there_.”

“But… this keeps happening. The people I love keep dying, and where am I? Maybe…” His emotions are not so easily restrained, and tears sting at his eyes. “Maybe Nina’s death was some kind of punishment… because I… because _we…_ ”

With a slow sigh, Jean redoubles his hold around Carter, tucking white-haired head under his chin. “You can’t blame yourself. Only those couple of madmen are responsible for what happened to Nina. And don’t you dare blame yourself for your mother. What was a kid supposed to do against that mob, huh? …I wouldn’t have been any use, either, if I’d tried to stop them. I think… there are just times that we have to accept that things happen that are out of our hands. I mean… aren’t those things supposed to be left to Ishvala?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he adds when Carter looks at him with a measure of astonishment. “I got my hands on a copy of your holy writings at the academy. I… wanted to understand, y’know? Can’t say I’m converted or whatever, but… it’d sure be comforting for there to be someone up there, making everything work out in the end.”

“…And you seduced me _anyway_.” But Carter isn’t angry anymore — a little incredulous, perhaps.

“Yeah, well,  my interest was a little vested. You might not think you were strong back then… but _I_ did. I admired you, Carter. And, with absence making the heart grow fonder and all…” He kisses the top of Carter’s head. “It wasn’t just to help you get over your fear that I offered. I think I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that I just wanted to be with you. Might seem dumb and corny, but… I love you.”

Since hearing this speech leaves him feeling so at peace in Jean’s arms, Carter supposes that he’ll have to be honest as well. “It’s not dumb. I… I’ve never felt this way about _anyone_ before, Jean. I want… even though I shouldn’t, I want to stay with you. I want… _this_.”

Jean’s smile looks like it could light up the whole room, if needed. “All right, then.” Then, something dampens his joy. “Ah… there is _one little hiccup_ , though: my mother keeps giving me hell about how I need to find a good woman, so… I’ll have to make some effort to get a girlfriend, for appearances’ sake.”

“…You could have mentioned that.”

“I’d tried to forget, honestly. I’m nowhere _near_ ready to settle down. Still, maybe you can introduce me to this _Solaris_ _from Central_ ~”

“Quit it,” but he’s close to laughing himself. “The nurse will be here any minute with the discharge papers.”

“Mm, I see,” even though Jean makes no effort to separate himself from Carter. “How about I carry you all the way home and then make love to you?”

“J-Jean! What did you _just say_ about _appearances_?”

The blond makes a sort of whiny puppy sound, but, in the end, he does detach himself from their hug before the nurse enters, paperwork in hand. And, though Jean does not subsequently carry Carter to the apartment, he certainly makes good on the second half of his suggestion.


	8. Fiona

“And how are you today, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Fiona, please, you’ve been to dinner more times than I can count. I think you can drop the title.”

The ginger laughs lightly and sets a cup of black coffee in front of Maes. “I know, but for the sake of formality, I ought at least to say it once.”

“Oh? Do you call Edward Elric _Major_?”

“Sometimes,” Fiona admits, “when he’s in an especially sour mood. It’s about as far as I can get with jokes when it comes to that boy.”

“Teenagers, what can I say?” After a sip of coffee, however, Maes wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “But I’m sure my Elicia will be an absolute angel when she reaches that age.”

“I have no doubt.”

A few ticks of clock populate the otherwise still room. So peaceful — if only all of Fiona’s clients could be as agreeable as Maes Hughes. Unlike Edward’s tendency to brood in silence, when the lieutenant colonel doesn’t feel up to sharing personal struggles, he brightens the atmosphere with talk of his family, whom Fiona adores: Glacier is a godsend, since Fi has virtually no other friends close to her own age, and precious little Elicia reminds her of treasured times when Briana had been just as innocent. Sharing time with a man who loves his family so much gives her hope that she can repair the damage done to her own, and that is a comforting thought indeed.

As if having read her mind, Maes prods, “Speaking of teenagers, how’re things with Briana?”

“…Better, I think. At least, she doesn’t throw hateful glares at me anymore whenever we meet. And it’s been a comfort to know she has _one_ friend at that school — that bond seems to make her happy.” As she sighs, Fiona brushes a few flyaways back into place among her bangs. “But when she’s with me, she’s on-edge, almost as if she’s expecting someone to, I don’t know, _attack_ us. Something’s going on, and she’s completely mum about it. I just… I don’t know how I can persuade her to _confide_ in me.”

“I think you’re doing the right things, Fiona. These kids are tough nuts to crack, but just keep on kneading until they give, right?”

“Right.”

“For what it’s worth, when I see the pair of you, there’s not a doubt in my mind that she cares about you. Sure, with what happened, maybe she’s persuaded herself into thinking that her grudge is more important, but if push came to shove, I think Bri would take a bullet for you. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Well, I would certainly _hope_ figuratively. My grandmother keeps raving about how all sorts of trouble is going to fall on the family because of Briana’s friend, but frankly it sounds like the sort of rubbish people with too much time on their hands concoct in order to spice up their boring lives.”

Hughes snorts into his cup. “That might be the most scathing remark I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I think of _plenty_ of scathing remarks,” Fiona retorts with an amused tilt of head. “I just tend to keep them to myself.”

“Not a bad trait to have.” Coffee in hand, Maes grows solemn. “Say, would you mind if I sent another troubled teen your way? Well, he’s probably almost through with being a teenager by now, but all the same.”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind.” Since a few others have taken up practice in the surrounding offices, her workload has been greatly alleviated, especially seeing as clients such as Edward hardly ever visit. “Who is he?”

“It’s a crazy coincidence, really, but… when I was in East City last week chasing that Scar character, I bumped into a boy I hadn’t seen since Ishval. You might remember — I’m pretty sure I told you about that incident, right near the beginning of the Extermination.”

Fiona nearly tastes bile upon recalling. “The doctor’s son?”

“Yeah. His name’s Carter, and… well, obviously he’s seen some awful things. Most recently, his uncle turned his own daughter into a chimera. Gruesome business. Poor kid was horrified when I told him.”

“How awful.”

“Yeah… He’s still in East City, far as I know, but one of Roy’s men is looking after him, so maybe you could meet him sometime.”

The prospect of hearing more details on _that incident_ is far from a pleasant one, but is it not her job to be an ear for these poor souls? “I’d be happy to do what I could.”

“Great, I’ll let Roy know, then.” With a satisfied sigh, Maes returns an empty cup to its saucer. “Edward was there, too. Kid seemed pretty rattled. I told him to give me a shout next time he comes to Central, so I’ll be sure to drag him over here for you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Maes.”

“Mmm, yeah I do. That boy’s holding way too much in. I mean, _three years_ as your client, and he hasn’t opened up at all?”

As if she needs reminding. “Well, in that time, he’s only had about a dozen appointments. That’s really not much time to get to know someone, especially when spaced so far apart.”

“Fair enough.”

Managing the hint of a smile, Fiona points out, “Even if he _had_ opened up to me, I wouldn’t be allowed to share details with you. Patient confidentiality.”

“Ah, I’d worm the details out of Roy somehow, if I thought it was important. ‘Sides, I’ve already seen the state the younger brother’s in. What darker secrets can Ed _possibly_ have?”

“You’re a bit too nosy for your own good, Maes. It’s going to get you into trouble someday.”

“So people keep telling me. In my defense, though, it’s how I make a living, working in Investigations and all.”

“All the same, don’t blame me if Edward bites your head off.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye out for any sharp teeth.”

+.+.+

Fiona sees Maes quite often in the coming week, thanks to a surprise appearance of the Elric brothers in Central. Unfortunately, the lieutenant colonel is unable to pry Edward away from some important research in the main library, so that leaves Fiona with little choice but to go to him. After a moment’s distraction introducing herself to the boys’ bodyguards, Second Lieutenant Ross and Sergeant Brosh, she slips into the study room as quietly as heavy oaken doors will allow. Even so, Alphonse looks up immediately.

“Hi, Miss Clellan! The lieutenant colonel said you might be coming.”

“Well, this is easier than pulling Edward over to my office. You boys look well.”

Edward scoffs, having not taken his eyes off the paper in front of him. “We’ll be _well_ once we crack this godforsaken code. Damn you to hell, Doctor Marcoh!”

“Brother…” Fiona can almost picture an expression of exasperation on the younger Elric’s face as Alphonse looks at Edward with sagging shoulders. “You could at least take the time to talk to her.”

“I’ve got better things to do. If Bri’s with her, that’s different. Otherwise, save this for another time.”

“She’s on vacation with her friend.”

“Then you’ve got your answer, don’tcha?”

Alphonse sighs. “Honestly…” Chair legs drag on carpet as the hulking suit of armor pushes out his seat and stands. “You’re so harsh, Brother.” Circling around the table, Alphonse scratches at his helmet absent-mindedly as he approaches Fiona. “ _I’ll_ talk with you a bit, if you like. Unlike _some people_ , I know how to adjust my priorities.”

Edward snorts irritably.

The brotherly banter makes Fi want to chuckle, but she holds it in so as not to provoke Edward any further. “Thank you, Alphonse.”

They walk together out of the study room, traipsing into a hall full of bookshelves until they come to a nook where they can talk without drawing too much protest. Once settled in facing armchairs, Fiona picks up the conversation. “He seems very committed.”

“He is.” There’s a pause, much heavier than one Fiona would have expected, before the other elaborates. “He always gets like this. Whenever we’re close to finding an answer, he’ll start pushing himself. It’s been over a week we’ve been working on this code, and he’s barely slept or eaten. It’s not healthy, but I know that, if I start calling him out on it, he’ll deny it. Or worse, he’ll throw it back in my face, saying he has to put in as much work as I am or it’s not equivalent.”

It has been some help to get glimpses into the workings of Edward’s mind, thanks to these occasional exchanges with Alphonse. Even so, _knowing_ and having Edward _tell her_ are two different things, and one cannot necessarily bring about the other. “That sounds like someone who’s desperate.”

“…I don’t even know if desperate even covers it. He won’t tell me so, but I know he blames himself. He takes all of the weight of what happened, and it’s driving him and crushing him at the same time. If this isn’t the answer… I don’t know how many more times he can take disappointment. I’m _worried_ about him, Miss Clellan.”

Despite having known for some time that Alphonse cannot feel warmth in his current state, Fiona reckons that the thought is what counts when she reaches forward and rubs the top of plated glove with her hand. “We all are.”

They try to bring talk round to pleasanter topics, but are cut off by the thundering of feet.

“Al!” Edward’s head appears from behind a bookshelf, and he beckons energetically to his brother, golden eyes alight with excitement so concentrated, they could almost be glowing. “I think I’ve found the section we’ve been looking for! We can crack that damn code yet — come help me!”

Alphonse nods and quickly follows his brother, leaving Fiona to trail behind (and placate the staff who descend with shushing and scolding). Even when she returns to their workroom, she sits in a far corner, taking the opportunity to observe the brothers without direct interference. They spend an hour or more muttering to each other, flipping pages and jotting down notes, but the air in the room grows increasingly tense and cold. She can read a growing panic in their movements, until, when Sergeant Brosh steps in to tell them that the library’s closing, Edward slams his hands onto the table, knocking his chair over as he stands in alarm.

“Th… This can’t be!!”

Understandably, Brosh is shocked. “Is… Is everything all right!? H-Have you been fighting? Please, just calm down…”

Alphonse shakes his head, his shoulders sinking with defeat. “No, that’s not it.”

“Then, are you frustrated because you can’t decipher the code?” asks Second Lieutenant Ross, having followed her partner into the room.

“We did it.” And, as weary as Alphonse’s voice had sounded when he’d confided his worry in Fiona, it sounds a hundred times wearier in this moment. “We deciphered the code.”

“Really!? Then that’s good!”

“ **There’s nothing good about it! Dammit!!** ” She’s seen Edward angry before, but never like this. The lad looks ready to rip apart the books which lie scattered around him as he all but _falls_ to the floor, face hidden behind a gloved hand as he crosses his legs, hunching, closing in. Already trying to shut out and protect himself from whatever horror is crashing down upon him and his brother. As much as Fiona wants to offer him some kind of comfort, she stays rooted. “This really is the work of the devil…” the boy hisses through clenched teeth and shaking shoulders. “Dammit, Marcoh, what the hell were you doing!?”

Brosh crouches, hands on his knees. “What’s wrong?” It’s fairly plain from his soothing tone of voice that he has younger siblings — in another setting, Fiona could easily imagine Edward punching the man’s lights out for speaking to him so. Now, however, everyone’s attention is focused on the boy, on his words which suck the last warmth from the room.

“The main ingredient for the Philosopher’s Stone… is a living human being!!” His automail hand slides anxiously between his forehead and his chin, pausing only for him to speak. “Maybe we would have been better off not knowing the truth at all. If what these documents says is true, then the main ingredient for the Philosopher’s Stone is a live human being. Not only that, it would take numerous human sacrifices to create one Stone.”

Having straightened, Brosh shudders. “I never imagined that something so inhumane was being conducted by the military…”

“We can’t allow this to go unpunished!” echoes Ross.

“Second Lieutenant Ross, Sergeant Brosh…” And even though he doesn’t address her, Fiona can safely assume her inclusion in the request: “Could you please not tell anyone about this?”

“But—”

“ _Please_.” (Which may be the first times she can remember hearing Edward use that word.) “Please act as if you never heard about this.”

Reluctantly, the soldiers agree, and everyone shuffles out of the room before the library staff can chase them outright. And before Fiona parts ways with the brothers and their guards, she and Alphonse exchange a meaningful nod.

She’s unable to get it out of her head: the tremor of Edward’s voice. Over and over it plays, and with each repetition her worry mounts. Alphonse had been right to warn her, because the elder brother had indeed sounded as if he were nearing some invisible line which, once crossed, could lead to despair… or worse. And she will not lose this boy the way she’d lost Cob. Never again, so long as there is breath in her lungs and will in her heart. Thankfully, Maes continues to keep her informed through the hectic happenings of the next few days: the brothers sneak into a supposedly-abandoned military laboratory and nearly get themselves killed, landing Edward in a hospital. She tries to visit once, but now even Alphonse won’t open up to her. Just what had happened!? To think she could lose the little ground she’d gained with the one brother so easily!! But she can’t panic. No, above all else, she must remain calm and clear-headed. Only then can she even dream of being a suitable anchor for anyone else’s terror-tossed emotions.

A ray of light appears in the form of Edward and Alphonse’s childhood friend, a delightful girl named Winry Rockbell. Spirited and kind-hearted, she charms everyone at Elicia’s third birthday party and clearly shares Fiona’s frustration with how tight-lipped the brothers can be when it comes to their inner plights. Maes, as usual, offers wisdom from the side of a man’s psyche, but even so — the mind of a grown man isn’t quite the same as that of two teenaged boys.

When Fiona musters up the resolve to visit the invalid once more, however, the atmosphere has changed radically. Alphonse immediately apologizes to her for his previous behavior, but the real surprise is Edward. He almost seems _cheery_ , as if some great weight has finally fallen off of his shoulders.

Presumably catching on to this favorable shift, Alphonse looks at Fiona (and she could swear that he winks). “Hey, Ed? I’m gonna go keep an eye out for the lieutenant colonel and the major, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

The silence left behind Alphonse is awkward, yes, but it’s nowhere as stifling as the air had always seemed to get in her office when the two of them had faced off like this. Edward seems to be mulling over something, so she waits for him to start.

“…Sorry.”

“What?” Because an apology from Edward is certainly not as predictable as one from his brother.

“I’m _sorry_ . I’ve… been an ass to you. Doesn’t matter that I don’t like this therapy stuff. You’ve still been trying to help or whatever… so I’ve got no right to keep wasting _both_ of our time.”

Is she hearing this correctly. “I… well, thank you, Edward. Apology accepted. But… I do have to ask: what brought this on?”

“Oh…” And he grows a tad sheepish. “Lieutenant Ross slapped me for sneaking off to the lab like Al and I did. She told me… that it’s okay to trust adults sometimes, so… I dunno…” He’s fiddling with the bedsheets, and not once has he looked her in the eye, but he’s _talking_. _Actually_ _talking_. It’s nigh unto miraculous! “You’ve put up a damn good fight in all this, if nothin’ else, so I’d have to be _blind_ to say you don’t care _at all_.” Sighing, the lad finally glances in her direction. “I just… I don’t know where I’m supposed to start. I’m not about to just let it all out in one go, or anythin’.”

“No one’s expecting you to,” she’s quick to clarify. “You can start wherever is easiest for you.” In a gentle attempt to prompt him, she continues, “There seemed to be some strain between you and Alphonse the last time I came, but it’s gone now. If whatever happened has been resolved, then maybe that would be a good place to start?”

Ed nods uneasily and begins to chew on his lower lip. As before, Fiona waits, and, eventually, Edward explains the incident, how Alphonse had come under the influence of deception, how that lie had brought to the surface tensions which had already been boiling within Edward, a fear tracing as far back as the night which had set the brothers on their journey: the crippling terror that Alphonse blamed him for what had happened — _hated_ him, even. The lad admits that, in hindsight, it seems a little foolish, since his younger brother is not a person prone to hate, and yet… there is something in his tone… Even if Alphonse may not blame him, it still seems plain to Fiona that Edward blames himself. Is that not what anyone would do in his position? What _she_ would do? How many times had she thought, _If only I’d stayed with him all night, Cob wouldn’t have died_? But all the regret in the world can’t change the past, and the sooner Edward can accept that, the better off he’ll be. Still, this is a victory, make no mistake. Certain that her face is aglow with the relief of this breakthrough, Fiona thanks Edward for his honesty with and trust in her, and they even shake hands before she leaves him to the waiting company of Maes, Major Armstrong, and Alphonse.

Now, if only she can get _Bri_ to be as open.

+.+.+

On the tail of progress with Edward comes a sudden and terrible blow: Maes, found in a phone booth, saturated with his own blood. The killer is unknown, and even the leads Roy shares with Fiona in confidence bring little closure to the loss. At least she’s able to visit Glacier often, if only to give her friend a shoulder to cry on. In the back of her mind, she wonders: do the Elric brothers and Winry even know? If not, who shall break the news to them when they return to Central? Difficult situations she’d rather not think about when she has enough to tackle right in front of her.

Speaking of, some weeks after Roy and his team have transferred, she receives a visit from the young man Maes had recommended to her. Carter Tucker is a healthy-looking fellow of nearly twenty, but what draws her attention immediately is the mass of disjointed scars dotting his light brown skin, almost as if he had been the victim of some kind of shrapnel attack. Souvenirs of the encounter with the serial killer Maes had described? She doesn’t look for long, naturally; staring would be an incredibly rude first impression.

“Um… hello. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Tucker. Please, have a seat.”

Carter nods. “If you don’t mind, uh, could you please just call me _Carter_ ? _Mr. Tucker_ … it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Of course.” And she can hardly blame him for the request. “Would you like some tea, Carter?”

And so begins the small-talk, sharing basic information about each other to cultivate an ambience of mutual trust. Carter’s lack of resistance is refreshing, and yet—

“You look like you have something on your mind.”

“Ah. It’s not really much.”

“But certainly not _nothing_.”

He looks around, as if expecting an eavesdropper to leap out of the nearby potted plant. “It’s… _complicated_.”

“Nothing you say leaves this room without your permission.” A gentle reminder often needed to reassure a new client.

For a moment longer, the young man seeks solace in his tea, but after setting the cup down, he hesitantly lifts his eyes to hers. “After… the deaths of my… my cousin and uncle, I started living with a close friend. My best friend, really — I don’t know what I would have done without him… probably gone home and given up on any dreams that took me outside my doorstep.” A nervous laugh. “Anyway, um… well, it’s complicated — oh, I already said that, didn’t I — um… Well, the trouble is… my friend has been spending more and more of his free time with others. Young women, to be exact. He told me it’s to keep up appearances, that it’s only because his mother wants to see him settle down with a good girl, but… I’m starting to wonder if he only truly prefers my company when he’s been _dumped_.”

Oh. _Oh_ . If she’s reading the undertones correctly, then this friendship… isn’t just that. She doesn’t have much experience counseling in _these matters_ , but she can only do her best.

“Does your friend know how you feel about his interactions?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve told him several times that I think it’s cruel of him to go around flirting when he has no intention of settling down anytime soon. …But he doesn’t change his behavior. We’re from the same town out in the country, so maybe the city life just went to his head?”

“That could be, yes. And… you haven’t had any other arguments with him recently?”

Carter mulls on that for a breath. “Well… maybe it’s because he knows I feel guilty.”

About the deaths of his relatives? Or something more closely connected to the relationship? She waits for more information, if he’s willing to share.

“And it is frustrating, believing one thing, yet blatantly disregarding that belief for the sake of an immediate comfort—” (The relationship, then.) “—but I can’t just pull away. I don’t _want_ to pull away. And I don’t think _he_ wants me to pull away, either.” Leaning forward, Carter props his head in his hands and sighs. “I’m sorry, you probably expected me to start talking about the war, and here I am babbling about this.”

“No problem is too small. This clearly means a great deal to you.”

“…That it does.” He then straightens, trying to work a hopeful expression onto his face. “Maybe I’m already taking steps to alleviate the problem. See, I’ve made a… friend of sorts since coming to Central. And, I didn’t intend this to be so, but it’s one of those friendships were things… suddenly become very serious. In a very short time, we’ve acquired… very personal knowledge of each other.”

Is he being euphemistic? She decides it’s safe to press. “Physically?”

“What? No! Good God, no. N-Not to say that she isn’t beautiful or intelligent or enjoyable company, but… no, there’s been no kind of… _physical_ exchange.” She could swear he almost adds a _yet_ onto that sentence. “Th-The point is, maybe it’s good for me to have someone else I can confide in. Someone other than J… the friend I live with. I’m definitely not pulling away from him, but… I don’t know… surely it’s not healthy to have only one friend. And maybe… maybe it will wake him up, and he’ll stop taking me for granted.”

“But,” Fiona cautions, “it could also lead him to believe that you feel you don’t need his friendship anymore.”

“…There is that.” Another sigh. “I suppose there are no easy answers in this field, are there? There’s no formula that’s guaranteed to fix things.”

“Unfortunately.”

“My new friend and I do have a few ideas, though. She is, after all, a beautiful woman, and my roommate has a particular weakness for beautiful women.”

Fiona detects more than a hint of mischief in Carter’s words, but if he feels energized enough to concoct a scheme — if he’s finding ways to solve his own problems — then maybe this is a bit of mischief she can feel content to sit back and watch.


	9. Briana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has implied dub-con and non-con sexual scenarios. You have been warned.

There isn’t a day that passes that she doesn’t wish, doesn’t pray to Papa’s supposedly benevolent God that Doyle Boucher would drop dead. She’d kill him herself if he weren’t so goddamned heightened to possible assassination attempts — but maybe that’s unsurprising behavior for a crime lord. Yes, Grandmother had, for once in her snobbish, close-minded life, been right to be suspicious of the way in which Boucher had come into his money. From the little she’d learned about her _employer_ in the past two years, he’d gotten _some_ inheritance from his family in Aerugo, but had made his fortune here in Amestris, thanks to a sharp wit and a silver tongue. (What she wouldn’t give to have the chance to rip out that damnable tongue.)

During the school year, she and Marj attend classes and other compulsory events, and their lives during daylight hours, at least, are their own. Night, however, is an entirely different story. Boucher runs a bar of sorts, aptly named The Butcher, which serves as a hub for his less-than-legal activities, and it is there to which the girls are expected to report. On good nights, Boucher only wants to show them off. On bad nights, sating his whims involves much more. Those are the times when, in the wee hours, they sneak back into the dorm (the matron having been sufficiently bribed to look the other way) only to huddle together on the floor of their room and cry. …Well, _Marj_ cries, at least. _One_ of them should try to be brave, and, temperamentally speaking, it might as well be Bri.

Summers are worse. On the pretense of _vacation_ , Briana and Marj travel with Boucher to Aerugo so he can inspect his operations abroad. The trips themselves would be an enjoyable experience if she weren’t that bastard’s arm candy, but, as things are, Boucher takes it upon himself to use this time together to _educate_ the girls. There are times during those months of hell that Bri thinks she’ll never feel even _remotely_ clean ever again. The one relief is that Boucher can’t knock up either of them, though he refuses to elaborate as to the exact nature of his barrenness (or, for that matter, whether it’s a permanent state, since he has an acquaintance skilled in operations _and_ prescriptions of that sort — a doctor named Archer). In any case, she doesn’t have to worry about tearing that bastard’s spawn out of her body.

Years drag on full of dehumanizing nights, until even the days become small comfort, sandwiched between one horror and the next. And in that unending nightmare, the only pinpricks of light are the rare calls from Fiona which mean the Elrics are in town. Even if she can’t breathe a word of what’s _really_ going on in her life for fear of retribution from Boucher, talking with Ed — seeing the strength of his resolve despite setback after setback — lights a fire under her. Badly dressed or not, he earns her admiration, and that’s why she finally decides to stop accepting her situation so passively.

Near the start of her fourth year at the Armstrong Institute, she starts digging. Anything she can find on Marjorie’s father — about his habits, his debts, his untimely demise — she logs and tallies, trying to get a grasp for the numbers. Even so, much of Mr. Ullman’s transactions with Boucher had been illicit, so there aren’t exactly records of them sitting around. That sets off a flag. If there are no records, then there’s no accountability. If there’s no accountability, then… who’s to say that Boucher can’t just keep adding onto the debt until Marj and Bri are too old to be of any interest to him? It sounds just like the sort of thing he’d do. Well, she’s not going to take that prospect lying down, no sir!

“Hey.”

Boucher looks up from his wine that early autumn evening and smiles at her. Where he sits, hunched in order to accommodate his spindly limbs to the bartop, he quite resembles a spider. “Somethin’ on yer mind, Spitfire?”

There is no fathoming the depths of her hatred for that pet name. “Yeah. Can we talk in the back?”

“And leave Marj out here, alone with this lot?” He chuckles. “What’s made ya so _cold_ today?”

As if she’d fall for such an offhand attempt to get her to say it in the open. “Come to the back, and I’ll tell you.”

Thankfully, he seems in a good enough mood to humor her, but she registers caution in his gaze all the same. “All right,” he presses as soon as they’re out of earshot from the main bar, “what’s yer beef?”

“I want to know how much we owe.”

“…A lot.”

“I want numerical figures, Boucher.”

As a frown deepens on his long face, the felon wags a disapproving finger at her. “Now, now, Spitfire, you know Daddy doesn’t answ’r t’demands. Try asking _nicely_.”

“I’m not gonna waste time sucking your dick, you sick fuck.”

“ _Careful_ . You’ll make me angry, and then I _definitely_ won’t listen t’any requests.”

At this point, she can guess that he’s simply stalling, so she tries a different angle. “Okay. _May_ I _please_ see Marj and my contracts? Or anything _else_ that can tell me how long she and I are going to have to keep working for you?”

He laughs, and her suspicions thicken, prepared for confirmation. “Since you said ya don’t wanna waste time — and because, ov’rall, you’ve been a good girl these past couple years — I’ll save ya the trouble of readin’ through the paperwork.” Using every inch of his height to fullest advantage, he towers over her with a wicked smile. “You’re gonna keep workin’ for me until I say otherwise. The end.”

“But the debt—”

“The debt doesn’t matt’r, doll. Sure, there was one originally, but it wasn’t as _gargantuan_ as I made it out t’be.”

She isn’t sure whether it’s a blessing or a curse that she’d been right, because her chest still aches upon hearing the words right from the snake’s mouth.

“That old thing’s been as good as paid since before I roped ya into this scheme. What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic. It was a good sell point for findin’ Marj a playmate down the line, so I held onto it.”

“And Marj? She doesn’t know?”

“No,” Boucher snorts, “but it wouldn’t matt’r at this point. Tell her, if ya want.”

Her hands clench. Even as expected comebacks play out in her head, she refuses to stay half-informed any longer. “You keep saying it doesn’t matter, but how can it? If there’s no debt anymore, then why the hell should we give you the time of day!?”

A familiar gleam of danger shines down at her from those hazelnut eyes. With a fast and fluid strike, Boucher grabs Bri’s upper arms and shakes her so sharply that her head momentarily spins.

“Yer a smart girl, Bri. You know as well as I do that Marjorie is the picture of Amestrian beauty. And _I’m_ the one who made her that way, groomed her into that piece of perfection. And _you_ : I took the spunk you kept in that tongue of yours and I brought it out into your whole person.”

She’d never admit so to _him_ , but he had done that much. In order to make the most of Briana’s presentational potential in contrast to Marjorie’s, Doyle had reshaped her image. Short and spiky hair, a few piercings — even the leather outfit (more like lingerie, really) and heavy sooty makeup she’s wearing right now are a testament to his molding. And it had all… _fit_ . At the start, she’d come to Central to rebel, hadn’t she? And, though she loathes the means with every fiber of her body, she can’t deny that the end result of Boucher’s preening has been a reflection she finally feels connected to. It’s the one thing she might actually feel indebted to him for. Well, that, and being able to meet Marj, but she prefers to take the volition of that decision out of _his_ hands and place it into _hers_.

“What’s your point?”

“Point is, I’ve poured time and effort into you pretties. Do you really think I’m gonna let you waltz away? Why would I let you go when you can make me money?”

“You’re already a goddamned tycoon.”

“Ah, but you can never have _too much_ money in this world, precious. Especially when you’re someone of exquisite tastes like myself.”

He’s just toying with her. Of course he had no intention of giving them freedom. That’s just the sort of scum he is. White-hot rage pours over her, and the words she spits at him are soaked with venom. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“Did I ever claim t’be otherwise?”

He makes the mistake of leaning toward her just as she lashes at him with fingers clawed. Would’ve been worth it if she’d nailed his eye. Even so, there’s some satisfaction in watching those red lines bloom on his cheek. “ _Ha_! How do you like that, you son of a bitch!”

But in that instant, she knows she’s crossed a line. He’s on her before she can even gasp, her throat in one of his long-fingered hands, her body pinned between his and the nearest wall.

“You. do not. call me that. If we’re gonna start using _brutally_ honest insults, then would ya like me t’call you a whore?”

“N-No…”

“No. Then be a doll and afford me the same courtesy, okay, Spitfire?” And despite his sickly-sweet tone, his grip tightens, cutting off air so that her only means of answering is a nod.

“Good girl.” But just when he releases her, a slap comes with such force that, when the world rights itself, she’s on the floor. “Take a walk, Bri. Clear your head. If, when you come back, you rememb’r how t’ask nicely, maybe I’ll forgive ya for bein’ so rude.”

Cheek throbbing from the strike, Bri glares at her oppressor. “And who says I’m coming back at all?”

Cue a snort of derisive mirth. “Don’t think you can threaten me, Spitfire. You’ll come back, because ya know that, if ya don’t, yer sister will be dead, and yer precious baby Marj will _wish_ _she were_.” There’s that positively _evil_ grin back in place. “We don’t want that, so don’t test me.”

That’s as outright a dismissal as she’s going to get, it seems. Gathering herself from the floor, Bri shuffles down the hall back into the main room of The Butcher. Marj makes eye-contact with her, but Briana lacks the heart to crush her hope of freedom just yet, so she silently asks for space, which the other grants, albeit with concern clouding her expression. Grabbing her oversized sweater and hastily pulling it over her head, Bri then plows into the night air. Her feet don’t seem to care where they’re headed, and that’s fine by her. Boucher wants her to take a walk? Fine! Watch her stay out all night, walking! As if she’ll come crawling back to that bastard to beg for his forgiveness! _As if_!

All the same, after an hour of storming around the alleyways of Central, she _does_ feel weary (no doubt due to the thigh-high heeled boots she’s laced up in). She’s about to look for a place to rest when a familiar head of golden hair catches her eye. Slouched with his face in his hands on a bench illuminated by a lonely streetlamp is—

“Ed?” The call is instinctive, and she regrets it the moment she’s made a sound. He can’t see her like this! Even after the haircut and piercings, a wig and her complexion had successfully concealed her transformation for over two years now! And _this…_ what will he think!?

Of course, she flounders thinking about all of this only _before_ he looks up at her, because _then_ , well… she can only think about how he _looks_ as crushed and disparaged as she _feels_. Ed’s been down before, but this… The last time she’d seen a gaze so distant, so void of hope, had been that of her own brother.

“…Hey.” Oh, God, even his voice sounds on its last legs. He shifts, and she momentarily sees a glint of metal disappear into a pocket. A knife? It could just have been his automail tricking her eyes, but she’d rather not overlook an important detail. “What’re you doing out this late?”

“Walking. Can I, uh… join you?”

His shoulders make the effort of one shrug before sagging back into despair. “They say misery loves company.”

Shit. If he’s actually owning up to how awful he feels, then this is definitely serious. Usually Ed plays the _tough guy in denial_ card, even when it’s unconvincing. Staying on alert, Bri approaches and sits about an extra person’s distance away from him. Last thing she’d want to do is stifle him. “So… what’re _you_ doing out this late?”

“…Thinking.” In the beats of silence, however, his right hand moves protectively to his left forearm, as if wishing to hide something. “Punishing myself.”

On a well-intentioned impulse, Bri closes the distance she’d set between them and, grabbing Ed’s arm, pushes up the sleeve. Ed, naturally, protests.

“Hey! What—”

But _what_ becomes painfully obvious under that streetlight. Running the length of skin from Ed’s wrist to his elbow is a web of pale, thin scars. Since he’s so prone to fights, she wouldn’t have thought to notice it before, if she’d even _seen_ it before, for that matter. But now…

“Did you do this to yourself?” His hesitation to answer is confirmation enough, and a little of the admiration she’d stored up for this punk fizzles away, fueling an anger that she can only justify through a fear of watching someone else she cares about destroy himself. “And what good did you think _that_ was gonna do, huh!?”

“Yeah, yeah.” In his efforts to avoid her gaze, however, his eyes seem to latch onto something else, and whatever he’s looking at drains all the color from his face, his eyes wide as dinner plates.

“What?” …That’s when she realizes that, in scrambling over here, her sweater has ridden up past her hips. Ed’s attention has been grabbed by the faux-leather thong that barely even covers the essentials. “Oh, shit!” She has to let go of him in order to cover up, and she’s more than half worried that he’s going to bolt. What with his life on the road and his mind continually tuned toward getting his brother’s body back (Fi had filled her in on the whole story of the Elric brothers some time ago), he’d probably never had a girlfriend, and his reaction to her exposed skin had pretty much screamed _virgin._ Not that she’ll look down on him for that; with all that Ed’s been through, she’s _glad_ that he has some innocence left.

Thankfully, Ed doesn’t run for the hills. He’s still peaky and stunned, though, and he seems to be _really looking_ at her for the first time since she’d showed up. “…Your hair…”

He must _really_ be out of it to take so long to notice an alteration so stark. “Oh, yeah… Felt like a change, I guess—”

“Bri… why are you walking around at night… dressed like _that_?”

Oh, no. Looks like that genius brain is finally waking up and putting pieces together. Shit. “Well, uh… it’s been stressful at school, so Marj and I decided to try clubbing. With enough bribe money, you can get in pretty much anywhere, _ha ha_ …”

“But hasn’t term just started?”

Dammit. “Yeah, but…” Aagh, she doesn’t have time to sit here dodging his questions! _He’s_ obviously in a worse state than she is, so why the hell is he suddenly pressing her on this… this _triviality_ in comparison! The anger from before surges up again, and, standing, she points a harsh finger at him. “I thought _you_ were the one who was so against intrusive questions! If you’re gonna interrogate me, you could at least apply that alchemist principle or whatever and spill some beans yourself!”

Unsurprisingly, Ed isn’t up for a squabble, but still… she’d be less worried if he’d at least show _some_ grit. Seeing this side of him… frightens her.

“…I found out this morning… that someone _died_ because of me. Because of Al and me trying to fix our bodies. We’d only known him for two or three weeks — practically a stranger — and yet he offered to help us. And _they_ killed him for it.”

 _They_? What kind of shit has Ed gotten himself mixed up in? Still, that’s hardly the key issue here. She’s never seen Ed come even close to tears, but his voice starts to break despite eyes remaining dry.

“And now, Al… Al thinks we shouldn’t even keep on this journey. I understand why, and I agreed with him to his face, but…” The golden eyes that meet her are hazy, dulled by despair. “I honestly don’t know if I can face the idea of watching my little brother, trapped in that prison _I_ put him in, for the rest of my life. …No, I _know_ I can’t! How can I live with myself after doing something so horrible to the only family I have left!? Fixing him is all that’s kept me going. Without it, what the hell am I supposed to d—!?”

Once again, she moves without thinking, but not sternly this time. Having retaken her seat beside him as he’s laid his soul bare for the first time since she’s known him, Bri catches Ed in her arms and hugs him tightly, as if she can somehow keep any lingering hope from escaping his body by enfolding him. He stammers aimlessly at first, baffled by the sudden display of physical affection. “B-Bri? Wh—”

“Shush.”

“But—”

“Just shut your face.” He’s still warm. Not cold like Cob had been when they’d lowered him from the bedposts. It’s dumb, really, thinking she can somehow make peace with her brother’s ghost by comforting this arrogant punk, but the longer she holds Ed, the tougher it becomes to hold back her own emotions. “Don’t talk like that, about not living with yourself, about giving up or _any_ of that. I get it. It’s easiest to beat on yourself. To tell yourself when things go to hell that it’s because you weren’t good enough to stop them. But… genius alchemist or not, you aren’t God. There… there are some things you can’t control, y’know?” She’s managed to push the words out in a smooth flow so far, but the pain she’s held down for so long starts coming up as a lump in her throat. Shit, she’s starting to tremble, too. Some comfort she is. “You do the best you can, and no one’s got any right to demand why you didn’t do better, and that includes yourself. But, still… that doesn’t mean you should just give up when it doesn’t work out. Don’t you think for one second that running away from this would make anything any better. Al’s the only family you have left, but the same’s true in reverse. If you go and _off_ yourself, then who does that leave Al with, huh? You’re so mad at yourself for hurting him, but your _genius solution_ is just to go and hurt him _more_? What kind of plan is that, numbskull!?”

That’s definitely hit a nerve; she feels Ed’s flinch. “I… I just—”

“Your brother _needs_ you. …And he’s not the only one, dammit.” She sniffles, getting a faceful of the smell of motor oil from his automail in the process. “You are… _so much stronger_ than you give yourself credit for. Every time I’ve seen you beaten up by this, that, or the other thing, you always get up. _Always_ . You have… _no idea_ what that’s meant to me. Call it competitiveness or whatever, but every time _I_ got close to giving up, to quitting on everything because it was too painful to take another step, I’d stop myself by thinking about _you_ .” She laughs in spite of herself, mainly to hold off the tears that are itching to get out. “ _‘Ed wouldn’t quit, so I shouldn’t either!’_ Stuff like that.”

“But, _why_ ? Why would you put _me_ , of all people, on a pedestal like that? I’m the last person who should—”

“Because we’re a lot alike, stupid!” Ah, that’s done it. There’s no stopping the wave now. “Rushing into things, blaming ourselves when things go wrong… I thought, if _you_ could make it through the awful things that have happened to you, then I’d know I could make it through mine. S-So…” The first sob catches her, and she finds herself clinging to Ed all the more. “So you can’t give up, okay? If you do… I…”

Forget it. Words are kaput at this point. She’s crying into his shoulder when she was supposed to be getting _him_ to pull together — _wonderful_. …All the same, he finally returns the hug, even resting his head against hers. “…I’m sorry, Bri. I… didn’t know…” Maybe she’d done the right thing after all. Ed had been trapped in his own head with his demons, and hearing her rant had pulled him back out into a world that would suffer loss if he left it.

Once she starts to get a hold of herself, she pulls back to sit up straight. Through lingering tears, she tries to read the emotions on Ed’s face, to get some reassurance that he’s not going to plummet off the edge after all. To her relief, he’s smiling, even if there is still a sadness behind his eyes.

“Can I, uh, help you wipe off that makeup? It’s kind of a mess now.”

That nearly gets _her_ smiling, and she nods. Pulling his gloves out of his pocket, Ed transmutes a handkerchief and goes to work cleaning up the piece of work that must be her face, given the layers of eye makeup she’d had on.

“Bri?”

“Mm?”

“…Thanks. I was… being selfish, saying stuff like I did. Giving up _would_ be running away. I gotta see this through, whatever that means.”

“Sure… glad to hear it.” Her answer is a little dazed. Maybe it’s because she’s never seen his face this close before, but… he’s kind of… handsome? (Maybe her wet eyes or that unexpected apology are just making her hallucinate.) Since she is looking so intently at him, however, she notices a blotch that had been hidden by his bangs.

“You’ve got a bruise.”

“…So do you.”

Oh, shit, that’s right. Still, maybe she can play it off. “Heh, guess we match then. How’d you get yours?”

The smile he’d been nurturing takes a downturn at that. “Mustang. That bastard — here I’d finally decided it was okay to _trust_ him, and then he goes and lies to my face. And when I call him out on that lie, he slugs me and tells me not to question authority. Damn him to hell.” Still, he manages to keep anger under control as he bats the conversation back to her. “What about you?”

“Oh, you know me. Can’t keep my big mouth shut. I called some prick a son of a bitch, and he didn’t like that.”

“Where is this prick? I’ll give him some.”

The image of Edward trying to punch Boucher (who easily has a foot and a half on either of them) is amusing, so much so that she snorts.

“What’s so funny? You think I couldn’t take this guy?”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Though, granted, she’s never truly seen Boucher fight, Ed’s alchemy would give him a definite advantage. “I’m just… touched that you’d wanna trash someone for me, I guess.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we? Friends trash together. So, where is this son of a bitch prick?”

It is music to her ears to hear Ed insult Boucher so boldly, even if he doesn’t know the guy. Still… “I appreciate it, Ed, but… I think it’ll mean more if I take care of it myself.”

“Have you started boxing again?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then let me help you.”

She sighs. “It’s _complicated_.”

“ _What_ _isn’t_ complicated?’

“Ed…” He’s finished wiping off the makeup by now, but for some reason, he hasn’t let go of her face yet. He’s just staring very directly at her, as if he can bore the answer out of her if he looks hard enough. If the situation weren’t so convoluted, she could consider his persistence… _sweet_. Despite his faults, Edward Elric is a friend she’s truly grateful to have.

“Bri…” He leans a little closer. …Wait. _Wait_ . Hold the phone — he isn’t going to try to _kiss_ her, is he!? But before panic can set in, he stops moving. “Who’s that man over there? He’s been watching us for a few minutes now. Don’t whip around, just… _look_.”

She knows who it is even _before_ she looks. Sure enough, Boucher’s on the other side of the street, lounging at his leisure against the nearest railing with a plaster on his face and a smoke in his hand. Damn, so he’d come after her just to make sure she wouldn’t try to run, had he?

“Do you know him?” Ed whispers. “Is… that the guy who hit you?”

Damn his intellect! The last thing she needs after already embarrassing herself by accidentally flashing him and then crying all over him is for him to find out about Boucher! And stammering, “N-No,” doesn’t exactly help cover her tracks, either.

“I think he’s caught on that we’ve noticed him.”

_No._

“He’s coming over here.”

_No, no, no!_

Gripping Ed’s arm, Bri hisses at him to go, to run as fast as he can, but before Ed can do more than process this bewildering request—

“ _There_ you are. Marj was gettin’ worried when you didn’t come back aft’r so long.” He looks even _more_ menacing with the added height from their sitting. “Who’s yer friend, Bri?”

“Edward Elric,” answers the owner of that name before Bri can get a word out. His stupid good intentions have already sent him into protective overdrive. “Who’re _you_?”

Boucher leers down at Ed and introduces himself as the godfather of Briana’s friend with a smile ever curling. No, that piece of shit _cannot_ look at Ed that way! Before she’s even aware of it, she’s shaking with a rage she can barely hold in. Boucher, never one to let a path in pass him by, jumps on this.

“You’re shiverin’, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside ‘fore ya catch cold. Marj’ll make you tea.”

“Great idea,” Ed agrees, standing and pulling Bri with him. He’s holding onto her so tightly now… “I’ll come with, if that’s okay. I haven’t gotten to meet Marjorie yet.”

“Ed, you idiot!” Another low hiss, but she’s pretty sure that snake Boucher hears her all the same. Not half an hour ago, Ed’d been here cradling his head in his hands on the edge of utter despair, and now he’s all ready to charge into danger to help a friend? Unbelievable. Unbelievably kind, but also unbelievably stupid. Sure, he’s caught on quickly that Boucher is bad news, but he has _no idea_ how bad.

“…Unfortunately, I think you kids have already been out late long enough. You should head on home yourself, Ed— may I call you _Ed_?”

“ _I_ can take her home, then. The Institute is in the direction of my hotel.”

He’s really not backing down on this. After a moment of inner calculation, Boucher seems to realize this, too, because his shoulders relax by a fraction. “Fair enough. …It was a pleasure t’meet you, Ed.”

“Sure.”

Doyle now looks directly at _her_ , and she can already see a plot forming in his head. “…See ya tomorrow, Bri.” Meaning he’s going to have _words_ with her about said plot. She can hardly wait.

“Just who is that guy?” Ed asks as soon as they’re out of Boucher’s line of sight. “He gave me the creeps.”

 _Rightly so, stupid! He was stripping you naked with his eyes!_ “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“But, Bri—”

“ _Please_ , Ed.” And she squeezes his arm a little more tightly as they walk in the direction of Central’s main streets. “It’s comfort enough to know that you know something’s wrong. If… If something _happened_ to me, you’d know. That’s enough.”

“You expect me to sleep at night knowing a creep like that has been _hitting_ you? I don’t like it one bit. Let me go back there and knock his teeth out!”

His bravado actually manages to make her smile a little. “Now, Ed. If I let you solve all my problems for me, my ego won’t take it. But…” And, ignoring his light flush, she rests her head against his shoulder (the one of flesh and blood, thankfully). “If I need help, I’ll ask, okay? I promise.”

“…Okay. I’ll… promise that, too, I guess. If… If I start struggling with giving up again, you get dibs on smacking me around, ‘kay?”

“I’m not gonna smack you around, stupid.”

“You might as well have!” and he’s teasing a little at this point. “You were _harsh_.”

“I knew you could take it.”

“You’re mean.”

“No meaner than you.” And she sticks out her tongue at him. “Takes one to know one.”

And soon enough they’re laughing, and everything seems a little less hopeless. Maybe she can’t buy her and Marj’s way out of Boucher’s clutches, but if he’s such a master of blackmail, then blackmail is how she can hope to beat him. What had been up with his sensitive reaction to her choice insult? Not three days ago, Bri had crossed paths with an Aerugonian woman who had addressed herself as an old friend of Boucher’s and passed along what had sounded like a long-overdue greeting to their mutual acquaintance. What secrets of Boucher’s could she know, and can Bri use them against him? Point is, she’s not giving up. No way in hell.


	10. Carter

He doesn’t really known how to absorb it: Hughes’s death. Jean tells him as soon as he learns of it himself, but the information seems distant somehow. Colonel Mustang is kind enough to invite Carter to come with him to the funeral, but something holds him back. He replies politely that he really hadn’t known the lieutenant colonel well, that it wouldn’t be right for him to butt in, that as an Ishvalan his presence would only sour the mood among so many soldiers who had undoubtedly served in the war — and, in the end, Mustang accepts those reasonable excuses and leaves him in peace. Well… actually, Carter himself obtains little peace. At Jean’s entreaty, he had tried to put aside thoughts of guilt, but this fresh instance of death turns his head back toward them. He simply can’t deny the eerie coincidence that people he grows close to seem to have their lives cut short. Again he wonders: is this punishment? Surely a just God such as Ishvala would not put him through more than he can bear?

Perhaps, then, it is _he_ who first begins to drift away from _Jean_ . Not maliciously, but as a direct result of his fears. What if Jean were to die, too? Carter doesn’t think he could endure that, not after what they’ve become to each other. So, even as he clings to his dear friend and lover, those frightened whispers tell him again that this can’t last, that something will rip them apart. Maybe, sensing that, Jean tries to give him more room to process. But still, _surely_ he could do that without throwing himself at every pretty girl he happens upon. That just adds insult to injury, creating a wedge between them where there oughtn’t be one. He has to do something about it, before they divide themselves out of mutual fear.

+.+.+

Carter would think he’d have gotten used to his life getting incredibly complicated in a short amount of time, but it would seem that Ishvala still has a few doozies left in store for him. The very day that he and Jean take the train to Central City with the rest of Mustang’s unit, the very _hour_ he sets foot in the country’s capital, he is pulled aside by _Solaris_ . Sure, he remembers that she had mentioned meeting again if he came to Central, but he’s still shocked to be what feels like _accosted_ by her.

“Wha—?”

“Keep quiet and come with me.” The urgency in her tone leaves no room for argument. Her grip is so tight on his wrist that he could swear her nails are digging into his skin. Through narrow streets and sharp turns she leads him in total silence, not stopping for so much as a breath until they reach a dilapidated room on the third floor of a rundown apartment building.

“May I—” he pants “—have my hand back?”

She releases him, but, without yet facing him, places herself between him and the door. This is looking less and less like a situation he wants to be in. Solaris doesn’t look like someone who’d start a fight, but looks can be deceiving.

“Carter Tucker… do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?”

“No…” But thoughts begin weaving together into the only possible solution. “Unless… did something go wrong with the transmutation? You told me that you thought it worked.”

She begins to pace, sending ripples through her dark hair. “Oh, it worked. It worked too well. I can’t expect you to understand, but it’s boiling inside me, and if I don’t talk to _someone_ about it, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Well, he obviously doesn’t want this woman driven insane as a result of his alchemy. “I’m pretty good at understanding things.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“What reason would I have not to?”

“And how do I know I can trust you not to expose me…”

“ _What reason_ would I have to—!?”

“Maybe it’ll work just as well if I rant at your corpse.”

Before he can even formulate a proper response to that, she moves, faster than he can follow. The next thing he knows, a black spear has shot past his cheek, stopping only when it hits the far wall. The spear is attached to Solaris’s finger, leveled menacingly in his direction. A concealed weapon? …No, it’s more like… her finger _is_ the spear.

“You didn’t flinch.”

He hadn’t had _time_ to! Carter’s never been notably agile, especially when it comes to fighting — he doesn’t really care for fighting at all! So what might seem like stalwart bravery is really just slow reaction time. Just as he opens his mouth to ask what in God’s name is going on, however, she cuts him off.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“…A little.” How could he _not_ have been startled by that business with the spear… finger… thing!? The motion of her attack had been calculating and smooth, but now her arm trembles ever so slightly, and not from the weight of the bizarre weapon. Hoping that he isn’t treading on thin ice, Carter adds, “It seems like the person who’s really afraid of you… is _you_.”

Vermillion eyes widen by a fraction, but then she draws back with an expression difficult to read. The blade retracts, baffling Carter all the more as he watches it disappear into her finger. Breaking eye-contact with him, Solaris waves a hand at the room. “Sit down. This is going to take a while to explain.”

Solaris informs him that, at the hospital in East City, she had remembered a city in a desert oasis, but hadn’t known how to make sense of such a brief vision. But, with increasing frequency, she had experienced _more_ flashbacks of what she had eventually registered to be the great kingdom of Xerxes and her life there.

“B-But—” Carter interjects, despite the glower which quickly appears on Solaris’s face at this interruption, “—Xerxes was destroyed over 400 years ago! How could you _possibly_ have lived there?”

She laughs, but the sound is humorless, and the eyes she turns upon him are sorrowful. “Because, silly boy… I’m not human. Not _anymore_ , at any rate. You’re an alchemist — surely you’ve heard of a homunculus before?”

He had in the most cursory sense, but that certainly doesn’t mean he would have expected one to be standing in front of him. Mouth agape, he listens to a more detailed explanation of the situation. Homunculi are artificial humans, sustained by the energy of a Philosopher’s Stone, and therein, the souls of many humans sacrificed to create such powerful resources. There are eight homunculi in all, and one is the master of the rest. He has guided Amestris since its inception, and as his plans near completion, so too does his noose of control tighten. Before these revelations of Xerxes, of the existence she had led before as a human being, Solaris had never doubted her _father’s_ orders, but now she sees clearly that she is merely a brainwashed tool. And, though she is not content with that role, she has no way out, which has left her with only a cycle of despair and resignation.

The longer she talks, pacing as she goes, the wearier she appears, until finally Carter stretches out and clasps her hand. It doesn’t matter that she’s a homunculus. What matters is that she’s hurting, and she had chosen him to share this pain with because she hadn’t had anyone else! And he knows, _he knows_ what that’s like! To feel alone and afraid! He can’t take it sitting down anymore; the compassion swelling up in him is too great!

She stares at him for a long moment, but the cornered look in her eyes recedes behind a watery shimmer. In a rush of skirts and dark hair, she wraps herself around him and begins to weep. And Carter holds her gratefully. At this proximity, he can sense it again: the faint screaming of many people. Does Solaris have to endure that sound all the time? No one should have to deal with such pain alone. Gritting his teeth, Carter swears to Solaris that he will help her, any way he can.

+.+.+

After all that, he can’t possibly consider Solaris anything less than a friend, even if they had only first met about a month prior. So, that’s how he describes her during his visit to Ms. Fiona Clellan on a suggestion from the late Brigadier General Hughes. It’s also why he returns the gift of confidence to Solaris herself by telling her about Jean. It is _she_ who suggests playing the soldier for a fool so that he will no longer take Carter for granted and _she_ who carries out the steps of action in said plan. As much as he appreciates having an advocate, Carter gets the idea that she’s, at least in part, trying to distract herself from the depressing state of her lot by meddling in his. But, help is help.

So here they are, less than two weeks into their stay in Central, and Carter has essentially hooked up his lover with his new friend. A ploy or not, he wouldn’t dream of acting as a third wheel at their little rendezvouses (besides, he’s certain that Solaris is much more skilled at persuasion than he could ever be), so that leaves him with a great deal of free time to wander the city. And, in all this vastness, he is astonished to come upon, of all people, an old friend.

“Renata!” Raising a hand to draw her attention, Carter crosses a side-street to reach her. Even with a little extra growth on his end, she’s at least a head taller (taller even than Jean), but somehow, she seems less menacing in this urban setting than she had been under the harsh desert sun. “I hope you’ve been well!”

She graces him with a small half-smile. “Well enough. Never would’ve thought you’d make it all the way to Central, kiddo. I’m _almost_ impressed.”

_Well,_ **_almost_ ** _is better than_ **_not at all_ ** _._ Renata had always been strict, in her own way. Perhaps that’s why she and Master Zhao had always gotten along well. “I wouldn’t have thought it either, truth be told, but here I… am.” It is here that he notices they aren’t alone. Behind Renata, practically hidden by the woman’s imposing frame, is a girl about Edward’s age and height. It’s her bold red hair which catches his attention. “Oh, hello.”

She grunts acknowledgement at him, looking somewhat peeved. Oh, dear. Had he interrupted a conversation?

“Don’t bite, Bri. He’s trustworthy.”

Well, that’s one of the only compliments Renata has ever given him; Carter’s touched.

“…Hey,” the red-headed girl supplies.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo, you didn’t. We were just finishing up.” Renata and Bri share a meaningful look, and the latter nods. No sooner has she done that than she briskly strides across the street and around a corner.

“May I… ask what that was about?”

“You can ask. Don’t mean I’ll answer.”

He may as well not ask, then. “What brings you to Central? Are the others with you?”

“Nope, this is personal business.”

Meaning that pushing the subject wouldn’t be wise. But still, before he can figure out how best to respond, Renata steers the conversation elsewhere. “You don’t look so good, kiddo. What happened to your face?”

Oh, right: the scars. They had already earned him a handful of wary looks from passers-by, but Jean has never mentioned them, so that’s been what matters. In fact, the only attention Jean has given them has been as targets for kisses… But why is he thinking about that now!? Hopefully his blush isn’t obvious. “I had a scrap, that’s all.”

“Must’ve been some scrap.” As an alchemist, she no doubt recognizes the traces of transmutation left as jagged scar tissue across light brown skin, but she says nothing more on the matter. “But that wasn’t all I meant. You seem down.”

“It’s… complicated.”

She scoffs, lifting her head high. “Well, if it gets too complicated, you can always run away. The Zhaos would be happy to see you, and I’ll be heading that way once I finish up here. You could come with, if you like.”

He’s about to turn her offer down politely when the beginnings of an idea prompt a different answer: “Would it… be all right if I brought someone with me?”

Renata tilts an eyebrow. “Depends.”

“Her name’s Solaris, and… she needs to run away a lot more than I do.”

She must sense his sincerity, because, without hesitation, the tall Aerugan brings down a firm hand on his shoulder and leans in. “Gimme the details.”

+.+.+

“ _That’s_ your brilliant plan?”

…Not the reaction he’d been expecting. “What’s wrong with it?” is his instinctive, somewhat defensive retort.

“You think we can just run away, and no one will come after us?”

“If your master’s power stops at the edge of this country, then the most logical thing for us to do is to _leave_ , isn’t it?”

“You aren’t listening to me!” Solaris grips her temples, releasing a frustrated groan. “We won’t even be able to get that far. One of my… ‘siblings’ has power you can’t even comprehend. He’ll catch us before we’ve even left _Central_. I’m lucky I can even keep out of his sight long enough to talk to you.” She even glances around the abandoned apartment, as if expecting something to jump out of the shadows.

“But—”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Carter—” And her expression softens, but it saddens as well. “—but I didn’t ask you to rescue me. You don’t have to keep such a ludicrous promise.”

It rather feels as if someone has stuck a spear into his gut and is milling around. Closing the distance Solaris had put between them in order to speak her piece, he holds her hands tenderly. “You expect me to stand by and watch you _suffer_ like this?”

“I’ve accepted this.”

“You don’t look like someone who’s accepted it.”

She forces out a small laugh. “You’re sweet.” And she kisses his hand. “But that’s only going to get you killed.”

“Just tell me you’ll consider it? Maybe an opening will appear for us to escape.”

“I think miracles are more your territory, monk.”

“I’m not even a true monk.”

“You’re more devout than most of the monks I’ve met in my time.” Why is she leaning so close? Is this her way to assert power? “I was trying to compliment you, silly boy.”

“Oh. Uh… well, th-thank you.” She _really is_ close, but his legs feel locked in place. “B-But you can’t really call me devout, what with—”

“With Jean, who’s been neglecting you for weeks?” With a tutting finger, she bats at his nose. Carter’s face feels hot. “And yet you’re ready to drop everything and run away to Xing with me? You sound a bit conflicted.”

When is he _not_ conflicted lately? But— “That doesn’t change the fact that I love him.”

“Exactly.” And she’s somber once more. “So don’t get even more tangled up with me when _he’s_ the person most important to you.”

“But—”

She presses the same finger to his lips. “Carter… your friendship is enough for me. Being able to talk to you… it’s enough.”

But it isn’t enough for _him_. Not when someone he cares about is in distress right before his eyes! However, Solaris won’t hear any more argument, and that leaves Carter with no choice but to stew in silence all the way back to Jean’s new apartment. Feeling drained after such letdown, the young man crawls into bed and tries to find Jean’s ashy scent amidst the sheets. Though faint, it calms him. Solaris may have given up on herself, but _Carter_ _hasn’t_. Dangerous or not, he _will_ find a way to help her.

Some time later, the door rattles and creaks, but Carter doesn’t stir from his lump of bedclothes, even when Jean calls with a cheery “I’m home.” Maybe the guilt from keeping secrets is catching up to him, or maybe the turmoil of emotions he’s already got is burden enough without adding awkward interaction to the pile.

Jean must assume that he’s asleep, because he barely makes a sound for the next few minutes, and Carter is only able to place his position with certainty when the bed slowly sinks under his added weight. Gently, Jean pulls down the sheets enough to reveal Carter’s face, which he wastes no time in kissing. Forehead, temple, cheek — does he honestly do this when Carter is asleep, or has he caught on that his friend is faking? Either way, Carter gives up the act and latches onto Jean with a loop of arms round his middle.

“What’s wrong?” the blond prompts, settling on top of Carter with breath across his ear.

“S’nothing.”

“Can’t fool me, silly.” Jean inhales deeply. “What were you ‘n’ Solaris up to?”

Unexpected — _startling_ , even. “What makes you think I was with her?”

“She has damn strong perfume, and you’ve got a whiff of it on ya.” Not for a moment does Jean sound angry. “Better confess, or I’ll start tickling.”

“We were just talking — about alchemy and things like that. We’re just friends.”

Jean pulls back just enough to lock eyes with Carter, and an incredulous smile flits across his face. “Did you talk about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Carter… I’m not stupid. You’ve been jealous.”

“Wh-What?”

“ _—And_ rightly so. I know it must make me look like an ass to be out with all these girls, so you put Solaris and me together for some scheme to drive me back to you. Honestly, she talks more about _you_ than _herself_. Big clue number one.”

His face very red, Carter can only mumble, “It was technically _her_ idea.”

But Jean is smiling when he dips down to kiss him proper. “I’m not mad. I deserved it. Tell ya the truth, I’ve been nervous about… well, I’ve never had to face this kind of commitment before, so I exaggerated that whole bit about my mom wanting to see me settled. And you were hurting from everything that had happened, and…” He sighs, their foreheads pressed together. “Point is: I messed up, and I’m really sorry. I promised you I’d protect you, and all I’ve done lately is hurt you.” With a deep breath of resolution, Jean concludes: “So, I won’t go flirting around any more. No more lies.”

As relieved as he is to hear that he won’t have any more competition, Carter can’t subdue the knot that forms in his stomach at those last three words. Jean only knows a tiny fraction about Solaris — should Carter tell him the rest? But… so much of it would be difficult to understand without a basic knowledge of alchemy. Does it really matter to Jean what Solaris is, one way or another? With enough rationalization, Carter finds it unnecessary to share her secrets, and he nods (but his conscience is only partially assuaged).

“Good.”

And then Carter has little opportunity to think of his guilt, because the comfort that had been missing from their touches over the past weeks now rushes in like a warm blanket as Jean embraces him. Carter welcomes it as a parched man would water, and in that rush of bliss, time is measured only by the dipping sun and lengthening shadows cast across the room by Jean’s frame. Panting, sweating, and beaming, Carter clings to Jean as the tall blond lifts him with little effort and totes him to the small bathroom. Within minutes, they are settled comfortably in the tub, the warm, soapy water seeming to press them together even as Carter gratefully tucks his head under Jean’s chin.

“It’s funny…”

“What is?”

“This whole time, I haven’t thought of a single pet name.”

Carter, quite confused, looks up at Jean with a slanted brow. “You do know that this building doesn’t allow pets, right?”

After failing to stifle a snort, Jean begins to laugh, jostling Carter’s frame along with his own.

“What did I say?” blusters the Ishvalan, promptly turning red. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, I swear, _ha ha_ , it’s just…” And Jean ruffles his off-white hair. “It’s a little refreshing how _innocent_ you are. Helps me remember what all I’m protecting, I guess.”

“You’re… not making much sense.”

“Sorry,” but he’s still chuckling. “The pet name is for _you_. Like, a term of endearment.”

That hardly banishes the fluster from Carter’s face. He’s quite tempted to hide underwater until this embarrassing discovery evaporates. “S-Such as?”

Jean ponders, scratching at his chin, until an idea lights up his blue eyes. “What was it Nina called you?”

“… _Tuck_.”

“Would it… be all right if I could call you that?”

For a moment, Carter’s chest clenches. Why should he share Nina’s special name for him with anyone else? It obviously wouldn’t mean the same thing if Jean were to use it, and Carter doesn’t want to lose the memory of that sweet, clear voice calling to him, giggling and cheering. He doesn’t want the memory of Nina to be muddled by anything. But then he considers that Jean is trying, in his own way, to help him remember Nina. It may not be the most _tactful_ method, but — as usual — Jean’s bumbling has good intentions. And Carter can’t be angry with him for that, much less deny the request.

“How about… a trial period? If it feels strange, I’ll tell you, and you’ll have to think of something else.”

“Sounds fair.” And, with a broad smile, he pulls Carter closer and kisses him. “I do love you, Tuck.”

Carter hadn’t expected his heart to flutter so much, but he stumbles through “I l-love you, too, Jean.”

“You’re _adorable_.”

They can’t lounge in the tub forever, though, and, as Carter scrubs Jean’s back, the blond turns the conversation back to business: “I’ll be on a stakeout assignment for the next few days. Could be our first real lead on whoever killed Brigadier General Hughes. You may see some confusing things in the papers, but don’t react, okay? I’ll explain everything, once it’s over.”

“Okay.” As much as he wants justice for Mr. Hughes, he doesn’t like the thought of Jean put into a dangerous situation. “You’ll be careful, right?”

Looking over his shoulder, Jean reaches back and clasps Carter’s closest hand. “I promise I’ll be careful. I would never go and die on you — not ever.”

With a sigh of strained patience, Carter leans his forehead against Jean’s. “You can’t make those kinds of promises. Only Ishvala knows how long each of us has on this earth.”

“I’ll still be damned if I’m gonna leave you alone.”

“Being damned isn’t a concept to invoke flippantly.”

“Of course, Friar Tuck.”

The pun takes several long moments to sink in, but they _had_ read the same legends and stories as children, and the reference dawns on Carter eventually. At which point, he splashes water in Jean’s face, in spite of both of them laughing.

With the arrival of the evening newspaper, proclaiming one Maria Ross as Brigadier General Hughes’s murderer on the front page, Jean kisses him goodbye and, garbed in stealth gear, heads out into the night. At Jean’s stressing, Carter had agreed to lay low until this operation of Mustang’s reaches conclusion, but that leaves him with little to do until morning comes (as if he could sleep, thinking about Jean on-alert in some stakeout hideaway). He busies himself through daylight hours as best he can with reading and journaling, but he just can’t focus on alchemy with Jean who knows where. Perhaps that’s why, when there’s a knock at the door just before sunset, he’s so eager to answer it.

“Carter. It’s me.” Jean’s voice. But, hadn’t he said he wouldn’t be back for a few more days? Had something gone wrong?

“Jean? What’s—” When he opens the door, however, he finds Jean in his normal uniform, even though Jean certainly hadn’t taken it with him when he’d left the night before. Does he have a spare at work? Something has Carter uneasy, and — looking closely enough — he spots it. The person looking at him from behind those muted blue eyes _isn’t Jean_. But, by the time he realizes that, it’s too late. A knee connects with his gut, knocking him back with force no human should be capable of. Then… could it be that this is another homunculus, one of Solaris’s ‘siblings’? Have they been found out!?

Unfortunately, there isn’t anything he can do about it now. When Carter collides with a kitchen counter, the impact leaves him breathless and dazed. Strength evaporates from his limbs, and he slumps to the floor in a heap.

“Pathetic,” hisses his attacker, the voice changing in timbre and pitch from an imitation of Jean’s into something else entirely. “Lust has been playing around with a measly human like this? A damn Ishvalan, at that!? I’m disgusted. Oh, well, at least now I have an excuse to make you _bleed_ , little mutt.” Carter hears knuckles cracking, but can’t even lift his head to prepare for the blow that comes down, making the world swim and plummet into black.

+.+.+

“Have you finished cleaning up the situation?”

“Not yet. But I’m sure they’ll contact me soon. It’s only a matter of time before we find out where our little lost lab rat and his vermin friends are hiding. After all, the soul and the body are inexorably drawn to one another.”

Solaris. And… someone else, a man with a deep voice that echoes off of distant walls… are they in some form of warehouse or cave? The air feels moist, so the second possibility seems more likely. But, where _is_ he, and how did he come to this place? Someone — that’s right: an imposter of Jean — had attacked him and knocked him unconscious.

“I hope there won’t be any mistakes this time,” says the deep-voiced someone.

“I’ve sent Gluttony and Envy,” answers Solaris, and there is not a drop of warmth in her voice. “They will not fail.”

Carter tries to get a better grasp of his surroundings by sitting up, but attempted movement aggravates the bruises left by his assailant, forcing air in too quickly, and he coughs, sharp and haggard, to avoid choking outright. That, of course, draws attention to him.

“Ah, yes, of course. So that only leaves _this matter_ to be dealt with.”

In the gloom, Carter can feel a pair of eyes on him, and their gaze seems to turn his blood to ice. Even with his limited range of sensing others’ life-energy, he knows that whatever is looking at him is _evil_. Is this… the master who is controlling this country? He sits enshadowed, but his shape is plain enough. Robed, with long hair draped about his shoulders, he presents a wise, imposing figure. “Pride gave me some explanation of the situation, but I would rather hear it from you directly, Lust.”

Carter can make out Solaris’s shape now, but her face is hidden from him. The man had called her _Lust_ … Wait, she had mentioned something about that, during one of their conversations. Each homunculus is bound to a specific sliver of their creator’s soul — a sin, so to speak. There’s something ironic in that, Carter supposes, that she and he and Jean would all share the same vice. But now isn’t the time for philosophizing.

Solaris turns, letting Carter see her face. But… it’s as though she’s a different person. All trace of humanity is absent: only cold, calculating disdain — possibly a hint of amusement — shows in her expression. And with that look, she speaks. “As you ordered, Father, I approached this human in East City as a candidate for human sacrifice and found him suitable. So, when he came to Central, I decided that he could be of even further use to us, especially with his being so close to one of the Flame colonel’s men. I wove a little tale to garner his sympathy and then attained direct contact with Mustang’s subordinate through him. But, I’m afraid, in order to sell the lie, I had to sprinkle in a little truth, so, now, he knows too much.” She sighs, raising her hands in an apologetic shrug. “Quite the oversight on my part, but he’s been a good little boy and kept everything I told him to himself, so at least there’s only the one loose end to snip.”

The words reverberate through the air around him, but they don’t register. Solaris… has been… _using_ him? Everything, from the very beginning, has been a trap, set to capture Colonel Mustang? To capture _Jean_ !? _No… no, it can’t be…_

“S… Solaris…” Even her name feels suddenly bitter on his tongue. “Why? You said… you wanted to be free… so, why…”

With the clack of heeled boots, she closes the distance between them, crouching before where Carter lies on the dirty floor, hands and feet bound. “I told you what you wanted to hear, silly boy. You were simply enough of an altruistic fool to believe it.”

No. She speaks now, but her words are empty. Not like before, not like when she was pouring out her heart to him, crying and asking him to hold her. This… _this_ is the lie. It _has_ to be!

“It would be safest, then, to kill him,” the master suggests.

“He is still an almost-perfect candidate for sacrifice,” Solaris points out, reaching down and stroking Carter’s cheek with a gloved finger. “Besides, it’s been some time since I had a _pet_.”

Nauseating lead pools at the bottom of his stomach. She… she wouldn’t…

“That’s awfully convenient, isn’t it, Lust?” A new voice jostles Carter. Unlike his and Solaris’s and the master’s, which echo _off_ the dark corners, this voice seems to emanate directly _from_ the darkness.

Gaze sharpening, Solaris straightens and faces the shadows. “What do you mean, Pride?”

“I mean just what I said. I find you alone with a human, spilling our secrets to him, and yet, when I bring the matter before Father, you manage to have an excuse this elaborately prepared? It’s _awfully convenient_.”

“Then my performance was convincing enough to fool even _you_ , Elder Brother.”

A cold laugh rings out from the empty space. “That’s quite a claim, dear sister. But maybe I’m not as convinced as you’d like to think. Maybe… I think you ought to prove just how loyal you are to our father. It would be a _shame_ if we had to _dispose_ of you like we did Greed.”

Solaris tenses, but does not falter, even for a second. “So _that’s_ what you’re getting at. What would satisfy you, Pride?”

It feels strange to be so passive when it could be his very life decided in the next few moments. And yet, the fact that Solaris hadn’t taken the safest, easiest path — killing him without question — seems proof that his hunch is correct. He just can’t believe that she has lied to him all this time. She’s… She’s just trying to fool the other homunculi, yes. She’s just trying to find a way to spare both her own life and his! So, all he needs to do is trust her. But then he recalls Jean’s chastisement at the hospital: _“You’re way too trusting. Just look at the mess it’s gotten you into.”_ That’s right… he’d already chosen once before to believe the best of someone, only to have that person betray him and the people he loves. Maybe… Maybe he _should_ consider the possibility that this really has all been a trick.

“Father,” says the shadowy being called Pride, “From what I can see of outside, I believe that the situation with Envy and Gluttony is getting out of hand. What was it you said, Lust? _‘They will not fail?’_ ”

Solaris scowls at that. “Get on with what you want to say.”

“If that rotting meatsack brings anyone back here, it could be troublesome to deal with. I think you should go stand guard upstairs.”

Turning her head to the master, Solaris seeks the final word. “Father?”

“…I agree. Exterminate any intruders, Lust.”

“As you wish.”

“And take your _pet_ with you,” adds Pride, disgust dripping from his voice. “I’m certainly not going to babysit him for you. I have to deal with our siblings above.”

“If you insist.” And, with a slash of razor-sharp fingers, Solaris cuts cleanly through the bonds around Carter’s feet before hauling him upright. “Move.”

And he does, but his gaze sticks to the floor, even as she pulls him along by the arm. Once they leave the cavernous chamber, it’s a long walk down brick-walled hallways, disrupted only by the need to climb over clumps of massive piping. Eventually, the silence becomes too much for him.

“Solaris…”

She gives no answer.

“Solaris, please… why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s the reason I exist. There is nothing else for me to do.” But, though her words are delivered coldly, the phrasing gives him hope, albeit feeble, that she’s putting up a front for her master and brother.

“…You deserve better than that.”

She laughs. “Of course a human would think like that. You simply can’t comprehend the difference between us. Honestly, you are such a silly little boy.” As they reach the beginning of a long staircase upward, she pauses and taps his chin with a sly finger. “If you behave, perhaps I can teach you more about how the world _really_ works.”

Ah, there’s the lead in his stomach again. Does she know how uneasy those implications make him? Is she saying those things on purpose to hurt him, to drive him away because she wants to put distance between them for his own safety? But he doesn’t want that! He wants her to be safe, too! Does she truly think that _this_ is the way to protect him!?

Finally, they mount the stairs and pass through a set of double doors. Just as Solaris pulls him toward a fresh hallway, however, new sounds filter in from a distance ahead: something akin to the snarling of an animal, and, coming after it, a man’s crazed cackling.

**“I’m comin’ for ya, old meat of mine~! We’re gonna have a real slice-up of a reunion~!”**

“Damn it!” With that hissed curse, Solaris side-steps into a nearby room, dragging Carter with her. “He got here faster than I expected.”

“What are we going to do?” If her plans have changed, then this could be his chance to remind her that he has an escape route, so long as she can get both of them out of this place (which looks like a shabby laboratory of sorts).

“ _You_ are going to stay quiet back there,” and she points to a door leading to a storage closet in the back of the room, “while I deal with Number 66 and his accomplices.”

**“Will you stop talking to me like that!?”** Even as the vicious shout leaves his throat, he doesn’t understand where his anger had come from. There’s too much swimming around in his head, but what he does know is that he can’t just take this sitting down. “You never talked like this to me before! Before, you were always… always…”

“Always what?” There’s far too much sadness in her smile. “ _Human_?” To his surprise, she reaches out and runs a calming hand over his head. “But I’m not. I tried to pretend I was, and — as I feared — it didn’t work. The dream is over now, and we have to wake up.”

His view of her face swims behind tears. Even though he’d yelled at her a minute before, now empathy so thick it hurts clogs up his throat. “But… I don’t want to…”

Still wearing that sad smile, she plants a kiss on the corner of his mouth, so tender, so _human_ , that he trembles. “I’m sorry, Carter. You wanted so badly to save me… but you can’t. It’s as simple as that.”

Footsteps echo along the hallway outside, along with voices… _familiar_ voices. Carter’s eyes are wide with mounting horror as the name slips out between his lips.

“Jean…”

“It would seem so. We’re out of time.” Without further ado, Solaris shoves Carter into the back closet, sitting him down on a pile of dilapidated books. “…I am sorry. I know Jean means the world to you.”

He doesn’t yet comprehend what she means, so heavy are the layers of shock falling upon him. “He figured it out, you know. That you were seeing him for my sake.”

“Did he? Smarter than I gave him credit for.” Grabbing a nearby scrap of grubby cloth, she wipes off some of the grime before tying it around Carter’s head as a makeshift gag. “I suppose the dream really is over, then.” And, even as he watches, the emotion drains away from her face, giving way to that condescending mask. “I’ll understand if you hate me for this. After all… I’m about to kill the man you love.”

Even as a scream builds in his throat, she slams his head into the back wall, silencing him. Time and space whirl around him in a chaos of twisting shapes and clamoring noises. Just as he begins to recover any sense of balance, however, an explosion rocks the entire room. Thankfully, the half-closed door and the wall protect him from the brunt of the blast, but smoke pours into the small space, forcing Carter to press his face to the floor in order to scavenge for clean air. Past the ringing in his ears, voices come into focus.

“She was either blown to bits or incinerated.” Colonel Mustang. “No, definitely incinerated.”

“How can you tell, sir?”

_…Jean…_

“When people are incinerated, the fat from their bodies disperses in the air. I know when a freshly burned body is nearby… because my lips get sticky from the fat.”

“ _Ew…_ Something you learned in the Ishval Civil War?”

_Jean… please_ ** _run…_** He tries to make himself heard, but, between the gag, his lack of air, and the shuffling of the soldiers’ boots, it’s obvious that he has little chance.

“…Her corpse is close. We can’t underestimate her regenerative powers. Stay alert.”

He hears it. He hears the exact moment that those deadly spears pierce flesh, and — for a horrible moment — he wishes that it’s Mustang they’ve found purchase in. But that, of course, is instantly overturned by that very person’s scream.

“ **Havoc!!** ”

A body falls to the floor, and then… despite the battle’s progression, Carter can no longer hear what’s going on. His senses are numb, and everything around him feels unbearably cold. Shouts and cries and screams land on his ears unprocessed. Only one thought perpetuates in his mind: _Jean is dead_. And yet, it doesn’t seem real. He… He has to see it for himself.

The sound in the room outside has quieted, save for scuffling and ragged breathing. Now that the smoke has cleared somewhat, Carter can get a proper breath, even if it stings his lungs. With a jagged piece of pipe, ruptured by the earlier explosion, he saws through the ropes around his wrists, pulling off the gag once his hands are free. Then, legs feeling as frail and shaky as twigs, he drags himself into the wreck of the laboratory.

Jean and Colonel Mustang each lies in a pool of his own blood, but, where Mustang is scrambling, reaching through the nearby rubble for Carter doesn’t know what, Jean doesn’t move. It may seem cold that Carter doesn’t immediately offer his help, but he’s in no state to perform alchemy anyway. All that he can think about is Jean, face-down, still as death. He slumps to his knees in front of his lover, so deep in shock that he can’t even cry. He’d been so afraid of divine punishment for their sin… but can it really be Ishvala’s will to rob him of the best happiness he’s ever grasped?

A flame dances in his periphery vision, accompanied by a cry of pain through gritted teeth. That’s the only warning Carter gets before a strong hand grabs him by the collar and yanks him away from Jean with a barked order. “ **Move!** ” Without a shred of hesitation, Colonel Mustang rolls Jean onto his back and rips open his combat vest. “ _Damnit_ , Havoc, you are _not_ going to die today, **do you hear me!?** ” On the back of his right hand is a smear of blood resembling a transmutation circle, but it moves too quickly for Carter to make out a distinct shape. In that hand, Mustang picks up a battered object Carter recognizes as one of Jean’s lighters. Mustang thumbs the flint, and, with a click and a spark, fire crawls over Jean’s torso, sizzling blood and skin alike.

“What are you doing!?” Surely cremation isn’t necessary at a moment like this!

“Saving his life!”

But… Jean’s dead, isn’t he? Solaris had said that she was going to kill him, so isn’t it already too late? By the time Mustang finishes cauterizing and searing Jean’s wounds closed, Carter’s curiosity has plowed through his fear. Sure enough, hands cupped to Jean’s face yield proof of warmth and the flow of chi. He’s seriously injured, yes, but alive. Is this what it had been like for Jean to find him in that sewer?

“Now then…” Mustang grimaces as he pushes himself to his feet. “I don’t have time to ask what the hell you’re doing here, Tucker, but I need you to stay here with Havoc. _I_ have a homunculus to kill.”

That can only mean one person. But Mustang hasn’t even reached the doorway before Carter calls after him, voice on the verge of breaking: “Please, don’t!”

“Don’t what?” echoes the soldier, not even looking back as he pauses, one hand on the concrete frame to support himself. “Don’t avenge the attempted murder of my subordinate? Don’t prevent the murders of my comrades? I’m sure that monster must have tricked you as well, but that’s all over now. It ends here.”

“But… she isn’t a monster. She just… all she wants is to live… That’s why she’s doing these things… She’s scared… She just doesn’t want to die…”

“We have that in common, then, because I have no intention of dying today.” And here Mustang does spare him a glance. “You’re not made for war, Tucker. You’re obviously far too gentle for that. So just stay put… and leave the burden of blood to me.”

In the wake of Mustang’s departure, an eerie silence settles. He can hear Jean’s breathing now, at least, as he cradles the blond head in his lap. The situation would almost be deceptively peaceful, were it not for the rampage of deliberation in Carter’s chest. Jean is alive, but Solaris is going to die. It isn’t fair… why should he have to lose one of them? She _had_ been telling him the truth, she _had_ wanted to be free of her master, free to live in peace with humans! But now that’s about to be lost, burned to ashes… Carter can only think of how all his people had wanted was to coexist with other Amestrians, and yet they had been massacred. Does that really have to be Solaris’s fate, too?

“Jean… please, help me.” Hunching down, he presses his forehead to Jean’s, as if the physical contact can impart some wisdom to him. “Help me save her… I don’t want the dream to end.”

The dream… or, rather, _a_ dream. It’s a small thought, but it grows and grows, taking shape as a form of action. If he could somehow stop Mustang without fighting him… temporarily paralyze him in some way or trick his senses, that would give him enough time to grab Solaris and run, wouldn’t it? If only they can get away from this place, Renata will be waiting in the far eastern district of the city, and then they’ll be free. It sounds foolhardy, and yet… No, it doesn’t matter if it’s foolhardy. He’s had enough. Enough loss, enough pain — he won’t stand for it anymore! He _will not_ let Solaris die!

Pushing up his sleeve, Carter grabs a piece of charcoal made from Mustang’s explosion and draws out a simple transmutation array on the bandages serving as his canvas: enough to manipulate the concrete underfoot and create a downward escape route. That should be able to get him and Solaris back into the winding tunnels underground, at least. The other matter — deceiving Colonel Mustang’s senses long enough to create an opening — will be infinitely more difficult. But this isn’t the time to doubt himself. Unlike the fight with Scar, it’s no longer his own life at stake, but Solaris’s. He cannot, _will not_ fail her. He can do it. A hallucination can be broken down into faulty signals sent to the brain’s sensory processors. And signals are just energy transferred from one place to another. It will work. It has to!

Carter carefully sets Jean’s head back on the floor, and though he is not giving an inch to doubt, he knows it may be some time before he sees Jean again. If this works, he has to stay by Solaris’s side until he’s certain she’ll be safe.

“I’m sorry, Jean.” And he leans down for a kiss goodbye. “Please, wait for me.”

With new life in his legs, Carter sprints down the hallway in pursuit of Colonel Mustang. Thankfully or otherwise, finding him isn’t difficult. All he has to do is follow Solaris’s screams.

She may have lied, murdered, and committed many crimes besides that. She may have a heart fused to a Philosopher’s Stone, powered by the souls of living human beings. But she has a mind and a soul of her own, and she deserves the chance to start again. With all of his heart, Carter believes that it’s never too late for a person to seek redemption. And _that’s_ why he has to save her.

He arrives none too soon. Solaris is on her knees, writhing in pain as the flames burn out around her. Mustang has his back to Carter, and that makes it all the easier. Channelling all the chi he can collect into his left hand, Carter grabs the colonel by the back of the neck and releases his will. It _will not_ end here.

All it takes is the fact that Mustang doesn’t turn around for him to know he’s succeeded, which means there isn’t a moment to spare. Even as Carter darts around the soldier, Mustang aims at a space a little in front of where Solaris has huddled and ignites a fresh attack. But he makes it. Grabbing Solaris by the arm, Carter activates his second circle and sends both of them falling through a hole in the floor that closes up after them. In the wake of that bright room, everything seems pitch black at first, but all that matters is that Solaris, trembling in his arms, is very much alive.

“…What… did you… do?”

“I gave him an image of you that he wanted to see.” Despite being winded, he manages a faint laugh. “She probably said something dramatic and cryptic before he managed to finish her off.”

As his eyes adjust, he can better see the shape Solaris is in. _Too much_ , in fact. Her wounds heal, but only just. Some of the burns on her back don’t seem to be fading at all. “Have you… exhausted your Stone?”

“I’d be dead, were that the case.” But when she looks up at him with eyes a warm golden, where before they had resembled red wine, there is no irritation in her gaze — only amazement. “You… came after me.”

“I’d never have lived with myself if I hadn’t.” Slipping out of his hooded over-shirt, Carter hands it to her. “I guess you’ll want to cover up. Wouldn’t want that brother of yours finding us easily.”

She nods. Having pulled his shirt over her head, she cautiously stands.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

To his surprise, she snorts with amusement. “I may be injured, but I’m not a delicate flower, silly boy. Still, thank you for your concern.” After a deep breath, she steadies and faces him. “Where did you say your friend would meet us, if we wanted to go with her?”

“The east edge of town, and—” He quickly counts on his fingers. “—unless I was unconscious for several days, she’ll still be there, from what she told me.”

“It’s our best chance,” Solaris agrees. “Then… this way.”

She really is something. To have been pushed to the precipice of her limits and still insist on leading the way through these tunnels — Carter’s more than a little in awe. After they have walked for several minutes, however, Solaris says something he doesn’t expect.

“Since you haven’t screamed at me, I assume that means my attack didn’t kill Jean?”

“Oh, uh… yes, Colonel Mustang was able to stop the bleeding. I’m sure he’ll make sure Jean’s taken care of.”

“…I’m glad. The one thing I wanted to avoid most… was making you unhappy. After all, you’re the first person who’s seen my true self in four hundred years. You made all of this possible. And yet… all I did was hurt you.”

“That’s not true! I enjoyed your company so much! And you helped Jean stop running from me.” Catching up to her stride, Carter clasps her hand in his. “If you’ve hurt me, it’s only been because you’ve been hurting yourself, and I have an unshakeable habit of taking others’ burdens.”

It’s difficult to tell in this poor light, but she might be a tad flushed across the cheeks. “Well… I think that’s a very generous habit you have. I owe it, and you, my life. …Thank you.”

He squeezes her hand. “It’s my pleasure.”

+.+.+

By Ishvala’s protection, they manage to reach the eastern district with no confrontation. After slipping out of a sewer grate as inconspicuously as possible, Carter relays Renata’s instructions for how to find her to Solaris, and, cautiously, they navigate the dark streets. Just as they reach the address (a modest inn), however, the doors burst open, admitting to the night a man. He’s tall, so much so that he seems unearthly, the effect emphasized by his slender build. Even by the light of streetlamps, Carter can tell that he bears a natural tan — that and his auburn brown hair would imply he’s Aeurgan. A friend of Renata’s? Speaking of, that’s exactly who comes up behind the man, walking out with him. (This is definitely the first time Carter has ever seen her appear small in comparison to someone else).

“Don’t you get angry at me, Doily. It’s not like this is _my_ fault.”

“I told ya not t’call me that. If ya don't want me angry, then how 'bout ya stop nicknamin' me?”

That’s when Renata spots Carter and Solaris. “Well, well! Perfect timing, kiddo.”

The man follows her diverted attention, and there’s something Carter doesn’t at all like about the gleam in his hazelnut eyes. “Well, well, indeed. You didn’t tell me you had an Ishvalan.”

“I don’t, stupid. He’s a traveling companion.”

“Same diff’rence.”

“Shut up.”

_Clearly_ , these two know each other, to exchange insults so casually. “Um, Renata… could we go inside?” he asks gently. “My friend has some injuries that need looking at.”

But it’s the man who first takes a step closer to the pair of fugitives. A quick glance shows that it’s Solaris who has now attracted his gaze, and his cold grin sets Carter on edge. “If I didn’t know any bett’r,” the man comments, a purring undertone to his melodic voice, “I’d say yer not lookin’ too hot. Then again, there’s nev’r a moment when yer not a glorious eyeful, _Miss Lust_.”

Solaris straightens, assuming some of the condescending air Carter had witnessed in her before. “So you recognize me. Consider yourself honored that I know who _you_ are, _too_ , Boucher.”

The man bows his head. “So, what’s this about you being injured? Can I be of assistance?”

In a flash, Solaris shoots out a spearlike finger to within an inch of Boucher’s nose. “Not any that _you_ can offer, no. In fact, the only way you can help at all is to be on your way and forget you ever saw us.”

Boucher clicks his tongue. “Regrettably, darlin’, I have a damn good memory, so unless you have some _incentive_ for me t’forget…” And there his eyes drift back to Carter. “Yer Ishvalan pet is awful c—” But before he can even finish, Solaris steps in front of Carter, keeping her spear leveled at Boucher’s face.

“ **Keep back.** ” And her tone is fiercer than Carter’s ever heard it. “I know how you operate, Boucher, and you’re not to lay one finger on him.”

Fear is only a momentary expression on the man’s face before his smirk reappears. “Fair enough. ‘Sides, there’s somethin’ else you could do for me in return for my silence. If you’re headed t’Xing, that is.”

“Doyle…” And Renata’s voice bears warning in it.

“I’m playin’ fair,” he assures her. “Well, Lust?”

After a heavy pause, Solaris retracts her weapon and feigns relaxation. “All right. Carter, please go inside.”

“But—”

“I’ll be right there.” And she gives him a warm smile. Even so, as Carter sidesteps Doyle Boucher and follows Renata into the inn, unease dances in his stomach. They may be as good as safe from the Homunculi now, but humans can be just as dangerous.

“Will she be all right?” he muses aloud.

“Don’t worry,” and Renata pats his shoulder. “Doily has a lot of bark, but he knows when not to bite.”

With a nickname like _that_ , Carter might not blame the man for getting irritated with Renata.

“C’mon now, you look exhausted. Go wash up, and by the time you come back, your strange little girlfriend will be inside ready to eat some late supper with ya.”

“She’s not strange, and she’s not my girlfriend. We’re… _allies_.”

Renata chuckles, waving him upstairs. “Whatever you say, kiddo.”


	11. Fiona

She can’t shake this uneasy feeling. Even though she might be able to chalk it up to paranoia, Fiona finds herself certain that, in this past month, events are swirling, entangling people dear to her in danger and difficulty. And yet, no one sees fit to bring her up to speed. Roy makes some effort to keep in touch after his transfer to Central, but his calls and inter-office notes don’t contain much information. It’s almost as if he feels that he can’t risk sharing anything of import with her. Does that mean he doesn’t trust her? Or he just doesn’t trust the means of communication?

In any case, her worries seem justified when, out of nowhere, Second Lieutenant Ross, whom she had met when the Elrics had previously come to Central, is accused of Maes’s murder! And no sooner is Ross imprisoned than she escapes and Roy kills her, in front of Edward. Maes had been Roy’s close friend, but could his grief really have driven him to do something so cruel? Could he really have struck Edward and so thoughtlessly left more scars on that boy’s heart? She doesn’t want to believe it (certainly not with only office hearsay to support the published facts), and has every intention of giving Colonel Mustang a piece of her mind. But when she all but storms into his office, it’s empty. She had meant to come near the end of the work day so as to catch Roy just off duty, but had she missed his departure? The state of his desk seems disheveled, as if he had bolted. More she doesn’t know.

Though Fiona would like to think that her patience is considerable, hearing shortly thereafter that Roy and his team had hunted down a serial killer and landed half of themselves in the hospital snaps something. Does Roy not realize that people _care_ about what happens to him? That his keeping secrets _hurts_ those very people? _Infuriating_.

“Roy Mustang, you owe me half a dozen explanations,” is her firm declaration as she pushes open the door to his hospital room. The person who greets her, however, is Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc. Well… _greets her_ isn’t the right phrase. In fact, he doesn’t react to her dramatic entry at all. His gaze remains fixed on the window, his posture slumped and his expression dazed.

What had happened? Her short interactions with Havoc had always painted the second lieutenant as a laid-back fellow, yes, but never this vacant. It’s as if he’s decided to be dead to the world.

“Oh, pardon me. Is… Colonel Mustang around?”

“Around,” says Havoc, but he barely moves his mouth. A knot tugs at Fiona’s chest, pushing her irritation with Roy to the back burner. After all, this is Carter’s… well, she isn’t certain _how_ the two young men would label each other, but Havoc is _dear_ to one of her patients. Should she step in, ask how she can help? But there’s the question: had Carter come to her in confidence, or had he mentioned his visit to Havoc? How can she breach the subject without betraying trust?

“Has… Carter been by? I’m sure he’d be worried about you.”

She immediately regrets speaking. If Havoc had been distant before, his expression turns downright despondent in the moment before he covers most of his face with a trembling hand.

“You… know Carter?”

“…Yes. He and I had a mutual friend in Maes Hughes.”

“…I see. But… no one told you?”

That’s exactly the problem: no one’s told her much of anything! But now she wonders if she’ll really be better off knowing. Before she can answer, however, Havoc continues, and what he says chills.

“Carter… has gone missing. Given the circumstances, he’s… probably dead.”

She can hear the fragility in his voice. It’s apparent — _obvious_ — how much he loves the tender-hearted Ishvalan. Carter had glowed like the sun when he’d talked about his lover, and now she can see how, _without_ Carter, Havoc’s countenance is like a sky without that sun. How could Carter ever have doubted that he means the world to Havoc? …No, she has no right to question that. She has doubted Briana’s ability to forgive her for the past, but Maes had believed. And, whether Carter had been able to make amends with Havoc before his disappearance or not, she will believe in the two of them.

But she’s analyzed enough. Now that the worst of the information is out, she may as well hear the rest.

“Do you… need to talk about it?”

His fists clench at the bedsheets for a moment, and Fiona braces herself for him to yell. It wouldn’t be surprising. Anger is a normal stage of grief. However, Jean slackens, and his answer is equally languid. “…I’ll be okay.” Before she can protest, he adds, “The colonel went to the lobby downstairs. Lieutenant Hawkeye is with, so you’ll have no problem finding him.”

Taking that as the end of the conversation, Fiona shows herself out and navigates the many halls tinged with the scent of antiseptic until she reaches the waiting area in question. As one might expect on any day, the room is populated with patients, but amidst the sea of civilians stands the familiar blue uniform, topped by blonde hair in a bun.

“Ah, Riza!”

The lieutenant pivots, eyes brightening as they land on her. “Fiona, what brings you here?”

Past Riza’s shoulders, Roy hunches on a bench seat. Beside him stands a middle-aged man with graying hair, rectangular glasses, and deep-set wrinkles. His hands rest a little above his hips, as if he had just been stretching his back. With a grave expression, he briefly speaks in low tones to Roy before looking in a nurse’s direction and following her from the waiting room. A patient, then, but what had he been discussing with Roy to give him such a solemn face? More she doesn’t know.

But bless Riza, who anticipates her first question before she even voices it: “I’m sure what’s been going on lately has been confusing to you.”

Try _confounding_ and _aggravating_ , but Fiona will accept what she’s given. Roy does not look up at her, remaining absorbed in his book instead. Not out of enjoyment of it, however: as Fiona circles the padded bench to get a better view of the colonel, Roy seems _drained_ , to say the least. Like a man who’s been running full-tilt for miles and has only just noticed all that he’s left in his wake. Why then the book? Where it lays open, Fiona can spot a spinal diagram.

“…Roy?”

Emerging from his daze, Roy lifts dark-ringed eyes to her. With a sigh, he admits, “I should have figured you’d turn up, sooner or later.” He even manages a dry chuckle. “You care too much to do anything else.”

“I make a living out of caring too much,” she reminds him as she settles beside.

“There isn’t all that much I can tell you for certain.”

“I’ll take _anything_ right now.”

So he explains in summary what his team has been up to — from their transfer to Central up through the raid on the Third Laboratory. The details are few, but even an overview is worlds better than a void of information. Certainly enough for her to promise herself that she will visit Lieutenant Havoc again, once he’s willing to talk with her.

“…I hope you aren’t getting in over your head, Roy,” is her concluding comment.

The colonel’s gaze drifts back to the open book, to the diagram of the spinal column. “Maybe I already have… but there’s no turning back now.” Then deep, dark eyes return to her. “I need you to trust me a little longer yet, Fiona.”

Now it’s her turn to chuckle, in spite of herself. “You don’t need to _ask_ for that, Roy.” A hand placed over one of his. “Whatever doubts I had, I never stopped trusting you.”

The faintest of smiles emerges on the soldier’s face. “Glad to hear it.”

+.+.+

As Edward had, thanks to Roy’s plans, been whisked away, Riza points Fiona in the direction of Alphonse and Winry. For the sake of giving her client space and privacy, she had never visited him where he had stayed during the Elrics’ trips to Central, but if events are escalating in any way like what Roy had described, protocol can be stretched in times such as this. She needs to be sure that Edward will be all right after the emotional run-around Roy had put him through. (Despite the colonel’s good intentions in the situation, Ed is still only a boy of tender fifteen!)

On her way to the military hotel, however she nearly collides head-on with someone else whose space and privacy deserve prodding for the sake of well-being. “Bri!”

“Oh, sorry.” The fact that her sister barely even spares her a glance is not a good sign. (And she’d thought they’d been having better interactions!) “Have you seen Ed?”

“Um, no, he’s out of town right now, but I imagine it won’t be too long until he returns.”

Is that a _“dammit”_ she hears muttered under Bri’s breath? “Guess I’ll just leave a message with Alphonse, then.”

“An excellent idea,” and immediately Fiona brightens. “I’m on my way there now. We can go together!”

It’s all too clear, however (and much to Fiona’s disappointment), that her little sister is hardly thrilled at that plan, even before she mutters, “ _Agh_ , you can just tell him to tell Ed to ring me when he gets back.”

“Why not tell him yourself? And their friend, Winry Rockbell, is there — wouldn’t you like to meet her?”

“Just leave off! I’ve got better things to do than play social butterfly.”

“Bri—” But, as the younger sister turns in a swirl of fiery hair, something else grabs Fiona’s attention. It had been concealed in the red-tinted shade, but now— “Briana, what is _that_ ?” When the stubborn girl means to ignore her, Fiona chases after and secures her wrist in a tight grasp. “Briana, you tell me why there is—” She catches her volume and finishes the thought in more discretionary tones. “—a _bruise_ around your throat.”

When Bri finally looks at her, the expression is dead, fixed. Clearly, it’s a matter she doesn’t want to discuss. (All the more reason _to_ discuss it!) But, behind the mask of apathy, there is a flicker of something else… is it _fear_? “I got into a fight,” she deadpans. “Happens all the time.”

And though it’s obvious that Bri is leaving out important details, Fiona can’t be certain that the succinct explanation is, of itself, a lie. “But what _business_ do you have getting into fights? Aren’t you supposed to be growing into a mature young lady?”

“Didn’t I _just say_ I’ve got more important things to do than kiss up to people? Now let go of me!”

“ _Like what_ , pray tell?” They’ve been dancing around each other for so long. Fi’s had enough — she can’t let this drop right now. “What’s _so important_ that you’re scoffing at your education, your very future?”

Bri’s glare is caustic, like pouring hydrogen peroxide on an open wound. “None of your fuckin’ business. It’s my body and my life, so. let. go!”

Perhaps it’s the shock from the vulgar language coming from her sister’s mouth that makes her grip falter. Perhaps it’s just the rejection. Whatever the reason, Bri finally wrenches free. Before storming off, however, she delivers one last barb, far worse than the others.

“Quit turning me into your goddamned _atonement_ for _Cob_!!”

And even after she disappears in a whirl of rage and harried footsteps, her image and echo remain, like daggers in Fiona’s eyes and ears… and in her heart.

+.+.+

It’s another two weeks before she’s able to meet with Edward, and, even in so short a time, problems compound! The Elrics and Miss Rockbell are nearly killed by Scar! Roy’s team is disbanded across the country! How do these people manage to get into _so_ _much_ trouble so _quickly_!? Even when she flags Edward down at a cafe, he seems already preoccupied with jumping his next hurdle.

“You seen a black-and-white freaky cat-lookin’ thing?” is his first question, delivered before he even registers that it’s her he’s speaking to. He’s holding up a drawing of said creature when recognition hits. “Oh, Miss Clellan.” A moment’s pause. “So, you seen it?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t. Why are you looking for, um, such an odd animal?”

“Its owner has info Al and I need,” is the terse reply. Then, however, remembrance lights up amber eyes. “Oh, yeah. That rotten colonel told me to give you somethin’.” After fishing around in a pocket he extracts a slip of paper. When Fiona unfolds it, she finds a phone number scrawled inside. Roy’s handwriting, all right.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t really know, he just told me to give it to you when I saw you next and tell you to use it in an emergency. Maybe it gets around the security he’s under, after everything that happened…”

Which is how she’s able to persuade him to tell her the short version of the events which had transpired regarding Scar’s reappearance and Roy’s team. This conspiracy business is a bit of a stretch, but she trusts Ed’s word. If only she could expect the same honesty from Bri… Speaking of—

“With all that’s going on for you, have you been able to meet with Briana?”

There’s a notable lift to one of the golden blond eyebrows. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

“Well, I knew she was looking for you. It seemed urgent. I was wondering how it went, how… how she is.”

It couldn’t be more obvious that Edward is guarding his words carefully. But why? What could be so secret between him and Bri that both of them would immediately get defensive about discussi—

…Oh.

Oh, God in heaven, not that.

“Edward… you haven’t been, um…” A meaningful pause left to imply, as speaking it aloud would hardly be proper. “…with Briana?”

His stare is positively _vacant_. Oh dear… “What I mean is, um…” Okay, time for some firmness of authority. “Bri is my precious little sister, and, my client or not, if you touch her, Edward, there will be consequences.”

That richly blond eyebrow has just about disappeared under scraggly bangs. “Uh… _she’s_ the one who keeps touching _me_.”

She doesn’t remember standing or grabbing Ed by the collar, but that’s exactly what she’s done within a matter of seconds. “Explain yourself!”

“What the hell’s your problem!? I get that you’re worried about her and all, but do ya gotta be so goddamned _nosy_ ? If _she_ hasn’t told you, why should I? I’m not gonna betray her trust!”

“So, you admit there _is_ something going on between you two!”

“Well, yeah, but—” Ah. She sees comprehension dawn in his eyes, and she likewise realizes there’s been a gap in their understanding. “ _Shit_ , of course there isn’t… we haven’t… _Shit_ , Miss Clellan, I don’t have time even to _think_ about that stuff!”

With an awkward clearing of the throat, Fiona settles back into her seat and smooths out her blazer. Hopefully they hadn’t turned too many heads due to her outburst. “My apologies, Edward. I… jumped to conclusions.”

“Eh, no harm, no foul.” And, though still ruffled, he shrugs good-naturedly “She’s your little sister. Of course you’d go for the throat of a guy you thought had… done stuff.”

That said, there obviously is _something_ going on: a secret Bri has entrusted to Edward, but not to her. That’s difficult to swallow… but she had, after all, been the one who had introduced the young alchemist to her sister, so she’s inadvertently brought this sense of exclusion upon herself. …It can’t be helped, really. When Bri is ready… if she ever _will_ be ready… she’ll tell Fiona the truth.

Edward manages to lighten the mood by telling her how Winry is faring at her apprenticeship in Rush Valley as Fiona walks with him from the cafe to one of the residential areas within Central City. There, Ed meets up with Alphonse and, after brief exchanges and farewells, the brothers leave her at the little gate in front of one of the houses and head to the door. The man who opens it strikes a strange chord of recognition with Fiona: it’s the same weary man who had been talking with Roy in the hospital! She hears Alphonse greet him politely as a “Doctor Knox” before the door closes behind the boys. A doctor… perhaps a friend of the brothers is injured, and this man is looking after them rather than have questions asked at a hospital? That seems like the sort of thing they’d do. Perhaps Roy had put the brothers in contact with him.

As she mulls over this discovery and turns to head home, however, she nearly walks into someone. (That seems to be happening too often lately.) “Oh! Pardon me!”

“That’s all right — no harm done.” The stranger is a young man of clean-cut appearance, standing about a head taller than her, with dark hair and gray eyes that, in the warm light of streetlamps, almost seem purple. Something about his face gives her pause, but she can’t put a finger on _what_.

“Do you, um, do you know the man who lives there?” And he nods over her shoulder at the house into which the Elrics had only recently disappeared.

“Only by face and, just now, by name. I don’t even know if I could consider him an acquaintance, as we’ve never spoken.” Catching herself before she truly starts rambling, Fiona backtracks with a question of her own. “Why, do _you_ know him?”

“In a way.” And the young man sighs. “He’s my father, you see.”

 _Oh_. Well, at least that identifies what had caught her attention about the stranger’s face. In the jaw and the brow and a little of the nose, there is notable resemblance. And yet, if there is familial connection between the two, why had the son kept this distance from the house instead of approaching? Why does his tone seem so forlorn?

He must spot the pensive look in her eyes, because he supplies, “It’s a long story, and hardly a happy one.”

“Well,” she points out, curiosity and sympathy piqued, “if you wouldn’t mind strolling, I have time to hear a long story.”

The young man’s name is Keith (Knox), and he is positively a conversational _joy_. Even if the story he tells is a sad one indeed — of his father’s scars from Ishval and how they had destroyed his family and trapped the man in fear and loathing — he is eloquent and remarkably optimistic, as if it’s a dream tucked away to take his father’s hand and pull him out of the dark closet into which he has shut himself. When he finishes, there is still some time before they reach Fiona’s apartment building, so she returns the favor of trust and tells him about Cob.

“…I can only imagine how hard that was for you and your family.” After a slow, thoughtful exhale, he shifts topic. “You mentioned a younger sister. Is she still at home, or…?”

“She attends the Armstrong Institute, but… well, the life of aristocracy has never really suited her. Cob’s death is such an early, _foundational_ memory for her… and I worry a great deal about its effects.”

“Perhaps she wants your attention?”

A sad smile. “Not that she’ll _admit_ , at least. I recently tried to stick my nose into her life, and she nearly bit it off.”

He nods in understanding, thumbing his chin for a solemn moment. “I don’t know which is more painful to watch: people who fight against misery on their own, or people who simply accept misery as their lot.” He sighs. “Either way, I wonder if they’re aware of how much it hurts us to watch them suffer. If they know how desperately we’re waiting for them to ask for help.”

“But when you grow impatient and ask for them, they can just close up even tighter,” Fiona concurs. They have now reached the revolving door at the front of the complex, so she pivots and warms her smile in the considerate young man’s direction. “I hope you’re able to help your father, Mr. Knox.”

“ _Keith_ , please — and, thank you. And you with your sister, Miss Clellan.”

“ _Fiona_ is just fine. Good night, Keith.”

Just before she turns to enter, however, attention is called back. “May I see you again? That is, I greatly enjoyed speaking with you, and… Well, would you be available for dinner? Tomorrow?”

Fiona can’t recall the last time she’d stared at someone with eyes so wide. Has Keith Knox just proposed an excursion? A _date_ ? She doesn’t know if Grandmother would approve the idea of her being seen with a mere coroner’s son, but it is not with any thoughts of familial expectations that she gives her answer: “I would be _honored_.”

+.+.+

Her first date with Keith (her first official date _at_ _all_ , actually) proceeds with such smooth and natural ease that the whole experience seems rather surreal. It’s been _ages_ since she’s smiled this much. Readily and happily does she agree to a second dinner in a week’s time, and, with Keith’s gentlemanly kiss to her hand making her feel all manner of new, bubbly and tingly sensations she doesn’t know how to categorize, Fiona returns to her apartment ready for a restful night’s sleep. However, barely has she had time to remove her wrap and shoes than comes a feverish knocking at her door. When she peers through the peephole, and then opens the door with all rapidity, she finds _Briana_ , with her hair drastically chopped short and clothing _very much_ unladylike. But that isn’t what gets her attention the most strongly. Her baby sister is in a fright like Fiona hasn’t seen since the morning she’d found Cob’s lifeless body.

“You’ve gotta help me! He’s got Ed, and it’s all my fault, and if I don’t stop him, he’s gonna do _God_ _knows_ _what_ to him!!”

Too much information flowing in at once. After everything, after so much stubbornness, Bri is asking _her_ for _help_ ? And what in heaven’s name is all this business about Edward!? But she has to focus. _Finally_ , Bri is talking. Fi _can’t_ let her sister down again. “Of course.” Even as she leaves the doorway to grab the phone, she’s strategizing. Whatever mess Bri is in, it may be that Fiona can’t handle it on her own — especially if it has anything to do with those bruises she’d seen before. It’s as she’s mentally scanning the list of possibilities that she spots the number Roy had given her via Ed, amidst the papers by her phone. Snatching it up and dialing, she then looks over her shoulder at Bri’s blanched face. “If Edward’s in trouble, Roy will know what to do.”

Bri nods shakily, refusing to budge from the entrance. “Just _hurry_.”

She can hear the line ringing on the other end. In that space, Fiona approaches her sister and reaches out to squeeze a clammy, freckled hand. “Now, start from the beginning. Who’s got Ed?”

The panic in her eyes proves there’s no time to start from the beginning, but Fiona gets the answer to her question all the same. And, even if the name holds little meaning for her, having only met the man once, Briana’s tone is enough to fill her with dread.

“It’s Boucher.”


	12. Briana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has implications of a non-con sexual scenario. You have been warned.

Well, blackmail she had wanted, and blackmail she has acquired. Not the most tasteful, but she’s willing to use whatever she has. Hunting down Boucher’s old acquaintance before her departure from Central had paid off after all, and now she at least has _some_ ammunition, right?

With raring confidence, she strides from the Institute during the soonest possible free period, not even bothering to dispose of school uniform or wig before she heads to The Butcher. The barkeep, Giselle, gives her an odd look before nodding to the back, where must be Boucher.

“Well, don’t _you_ look nice,” comments the villain from where he lounges on a couch in his private suite. “You’d really spend yer precious aft’rnoon hours of freedom with _me_ ? I’m _touched_.”

“Save it,” Bri all but spits. “I’ve come with something to say, and I’m gonna say it.”

One auburn eyebrow perched, Boucher crosses his arms. That’s as much permission to continue as she’s going to get, so… here goes nothing. (Or everything.)

“I know what you are.”

There’s a pause before Boucher delivers a snarky reply. “…A criminal mast’rmind? A classy piece of shit? Gotta be specific, Bri, ‘cuz I’m a lot, and I’m proud of — oh — pretty much _all_ of it.”

She takes a step closer to him, leveling him with a gaze that could almost be called pitying, were it not so coated in hatred. “I know that you _are_ a son of a bitch. Do you run this ring of drugs and sex because you’re _proud_ of the trade you came from?” She snorts bitterly. “And Fi tells _me_ I’m in denia—”

But she isn’t able to finish that sentence, because Boucher has sprung up from his couch and, his hazelnut eyes wide, grabbed her by the throat.

“Where—!?” Is that a rough swallow that clogs up his speech for a moment? “Where did you hear that?”

“Y… you really think I’m… gonna tell you?”

No surprise that he squeezes her more tightly for her sass. Her own hands are wrapped around his wrist, fighting for leverage and breath. With his eyes boring into hers, a tense silence stretches out, marked only by her gasps for air. And then, Boucher’s expression slowly changes into an incredulous smile.

“… _Renata_. Of course.”

Well, _yeah_ . The way the travelling alchemist had made it sound, she’s the only living soul who knows the whole truth… seeing as Boucher had killed all the others. Only loosening his grip enough for Bri to get a proper breath, Boucher prompts, “So, the first time an old friend of mine came t’town, you jumped yer chance t’get some dirt on me, huh? Is that what this is, Spitfire? Just what all did she tell ya, _hmm_?”

No getting out of it. Besides, the more she shows what she knows, the more power she has, right? “About your mother—”

“—I know that!” His free hand slammed to the wall beside her head before he curbs his temper. “…You already said that much. I mean the _rest_.”

“The rest…?” The inhumane circumstances of his childhood? The irredeemable _monster_ his father had been? The inexorable events that had meant the death of one monster and the birth of another? Because _that’s_ information she doesn’t necessarily care to repeat, if only because just _hearing_ it had been enough to make her _nauseous_.

Boucher’s knuckles whiten against the wall as his predatory gaze scans her expression, no doubt reading as much from her tightly-pressed lips and her wide eyes. “So… she told ya about that bastard, did she?” And, to her shock, he smirks. “Bet that made me look like a saint, didn’t it.” A _statement_ , not a question.

“It… definitely made you look like… _not quite_ the shittiest piece of scum to crawl the earth.”

He snorts, but the sound is rough and bitter — so different from his usual oily tones. “Not quite, eh?” A pause sharply broken by, “So, whaddya plan t’ _do_ with this information?” A question that turns out to be rhetorical, for Doyle’s grip tightens once more, until Bri has spots dancing behind her eyes. “You weren’t thinkin’, by any chance, that ya could use this _against me_ , were ya? Didn’t Renata _warn_ ya that ev’rybody else who’s opened that can of worms has become _food_ for ‘em? Yer an arrogant little girl who thinks ya can beat the big bad guy _all by yer lonesome_ ~”

That’s when the fear hits her, when she acknowledges the reality that he could, and very well _might_ , strangle her, here and now. There’s some irony in that, because Cob had died much the same way, except by his own hand by way of rope and bedposts. Hopefully Boucher would have the slightest amount of human decency left, enough to make it _quick_. Maybe that’s too much to hope.

But, in an instant, the pressure is gone, and she’s coughing and wheezing at his feet. “Had a good remind’r, have we? Rememb’red who ya belong to, have ya?” Once again, he doesn’t wait for her answer, but hauls her up from the floor and steers her back to the couch. With _anything but_ gentleness, he shoves her down and traps her under him. His voice has returned to one of deadly calm when he asks, “Do ya need _anoth’r_ remind’r, Spitfire?”

“N-No—” But he’s already cupped a hand over her mouth.

“See… I think ya do.”

+.+.+

She’s able to hide the limp that lingers after that frightening, embarrassing, _infuriating_ encounter for the next few days, but not the bruises. And, damn it all, it just has to be Fi who sees them. Like she can _possibly_ bare her soul to the person for whose sake she’s kept secrets in the first place! …But it does hurt more than she wants to admit that one of the very people she’s trying to protect keeps getting all the sharp ends of her defensive instincts. Dammit…

When Edward finally does get his ass back to town, Bri wastes no time in trying to hunt him down. She can’t _afford_ to do anything else, considering the ultimatum Doyle had left her with before finally letting her slink back to school. A proposal terrifying in its simplicity: Ed for Marj.

“The hell do you want _Ed_ for?” she had hissed at him upon hearing this offer first voiced, at which Boucher had snorted with amusement.

“The hell do I want _anyone_ for, Spitfire?” She’d been hoping it wasn’t that — _anything_ but that. “What ya don’t seem to get is that _rarity_ goes a long way in this market. As pretty as a dollbaby like Marjorie is, a blue-eyed blonde is a dime a dozen in this country. Shift to the West, and I can find plenty of freckle-faced gingers, too. But _Xerxians_ — oh, darlin’, they’re an endangered people! All but _extinct_ ! I get my hands on one of _them_ , and I’m lookin’ at the _real_ lap of luxury! So, if you slide that friend of yours into my pocket, I’ll be _more_ than compensated for the loss of Marj.”

But, as much as she’d told herself she’d do anything to see Marj free of that monster, she can’t betray Ed like that. So, sure, she’s trying to get in direct contact with him ASAP, but not to lure him into a trap. No, to lure _Boucher_ into one.

Since this matter concerns Marj, too, Bri brings Ed to meet her when she finally grabs him in a free moment (or as free as moments get for Edward; she has to pull him away from a search for some weird-looking small animal with the bribe of paying for his food). But, upon telling Ed the short version of her predicament and her plan, not only is Edward sombered, but also Marjorie is, to put it mildly, _appalled_.

“You want to do _what_!?”

“You have a better solution? After all this time under his thumb, I would think you’d jump at the opportunity!”

“And, I _would_ , if this weren’t about pitting our wits against a man who manipulates people for a living. Plus, you’re pulling your friend into something that really doesn’t concern him—”

“Hey,” Ed cuts in, “much as I appreciate the sentiment, this _does_ concern me. Because, yeah, _I am_ Bri’s friend, and that means I’m not gonna just let this stand now that I know about it, no way.” His automail fist clenches around a napkin. It’s been a while since Bri’s seen a look of such concentrated anger on Edward’s face, but… it’s kinda comforting to see it return. Anything’s better than the slump he’d been in the last time they’d had a decent conversation.  With that feral, yet protective light in his golden eyes, Ed all but growls, “People who don’t put the right kind of value on human life should have their teeth kicked in.”

Now _that’s_ a satisfying mental image. Any misgivings Bri may have had due to Marj’s uncertainty evaporate. Sure, Boucher does manipulate people for a living… but Edward Elric isn’t the youngest state alchemist in history for nothing. If anyone can outsmart that snake, surely _he_ can.

At least, that’s what she tells herself when she sets up the time and place: evening, two days after next, at an unused warehouse about midway between the Institute and the Butcher. After her last talk with Boucher, Bri simply passes the information along to Giselle through the Butcher’s main phone line. What she doesn’t expect to receive a package the day before the plan is carried out; inside is a syringe and a note in Boucher’s atrocious handwriting (honestly, a _grade schooler_ could write better!):

_This will make your friend all quiet-like for pickup._

So now she’s expected to _drug_ Ed, too? Unbelievable. Except… that does seem to indicate that Boucher is trusting her to get the job done, right? Which means, by not giving Ed the drug, they’ll _definitely_ have the upper hand.

The day of, Ed arrives at their predetermined meeting point in good time and good spirits, looking more than a little excited to get to take Boucher down.

“I thought you actually didn’t like fighting,” says Bri.

“I don’t,” Ed agrees, “but there is something _exhilarating_ about giving a beat-down to a fucker who deserves it.” They pause as the edifice of the destination looms overhead amidst the sea of alleys and warehouses. “Ready to do this?”

“…Yeah.”

“You still haven’t picked up boxing again, have you?”

“…No. I mean, I can still throw a solid punch, but…”

Ed shrugs, as if he had expected as much. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t let you get hurt. But it might get kinda dicey in there while I kick ass, so just keep your head down unless you’ve got a clear shot for a clean hit, got it?”

Were the situation less serious, she might put up more of a protest about her ability to protect herself, but, next to someone like Ed, in peak fighting condition, she probably does seem pretty useless. Besides, it’s her own fault for not making time to train, so taking that out on Ed would just be childish. “I got it.”

Bri then relays the issue of the drug. Ed doesn’t seem to like the idea of pretending to be intoxicated, but agrees that it’s a good strategy for luring in Boucher. But, just before they step inside, Ed pauses.

“What’s up?” His expression is difficult to read, but that’s hardly comforting. “Hey. It’s not like you to get cold feet.”

“Bri… on the off-chance that this goes south—”

“What did I just say?”

“—Listen to me!”

That shuts her up well enough. Ed sucks in a fresh breath and starts again: “If something goes wrong in there, you run. You go get Colonel Mustang. …I know I was pretty pissed at him the last time we really talked, but… well, I think I understand him a little better now. And I’ve decided it really is okay to trust him. Your sister has a way to get in touch with him for emergencies.”

Bri glowers at that. “I’m not getting her involved.”

“She’s already _been_ involved, Bri, even if she didn’t know it. You’re gonna have to tell her eventually, right? And… she really wants to help you, if she can. So, if it comes to that, let her.”

She doesn’t meet Ed’s earnest gaze when she finally answers. “…Well, since it’s you asking… I guess so. But, we’re talking a worst-case scenario. You said before you were gonna kick ass, so just focus on doing that, and we’ll be fine!”

With that to bolster her, Bri leads the way inside. The warehouse is empty, for the most part: only a few clusters of crates line the walls. On the upside, it’ll be hard for someone to sneak up on them. On the downside, they’re exposed.

The seconds soundlessly tick by, with their only occupation Ed polishing his impression of being stoned. She almost laughs a few times, but that really would put them in a pickle, so she keeps a straight face, _somehow_.

Finally, just as Bri is about to call Boucher out for being late, the clop of shoes and the clap of hands proclaim the devil’s entrance. Smug as ever, of course, and followed by a severe-looking Amestrian woman in a lab coat. The woman strikes a chord of familiarity with Bri as Boucher’s medical go-to, but she brushes that aside for now. “Well,” says Boucher. “Well, well, well. Looks like you _can_ follow simple instructions aft’r all, Spitfire. Proud of ya.”

“…Let’s just get this over with, okay?” she prompts with averted eyes. Ed is faking pretty well now, even shuffling over to lean against her as if in need of a brace, but she doesn’t want to leave any extra time for Boucher to get wise to their scheme. “I brought Ed, just like you asked. You’ll keep your word?”

Boucher smiles. “You’ve heard it directly from me: Marj’s free as a little bird.” And, seeing Bri’s skeptical scowl, he adds, “Still don’t trust me? I’m hurt, Spitfire. Oh, well…” He keeps his eyes on them… but there’s something in the light behind his gaze Bri doesn’t like. They’re within his arm’s reach now, and reach he does to lift the alchemist’s chin. It’s got to be taking all of Ed’s self control not to kick him in the balls. “Nice t’see ya again, Edward.”

“Uh…” To keep up the pretense of intoxication, Ed takes his sweet time forming anything close to a coherent sentence. “…Yeah…”

Those hazelnut eyes seem to dig around in Ed’s amber ones, and Bri instinctively holds her breath. She can see the woman eyeing Edward as well, with the air of examining the contents of a petri dish. After a brief glance to her watch, she speaks up, “Doyle, some of us have better things to do than to watch you play with your new toy.” Her tone is one of a condescending relative — exactly the sort of air in which Grandmother would find some kindred spirit.

“Let me bask a _little_ , Tam,” Boucher pouts, turning over his shoulder to face her. And that, as much as anything, is an opening — one Edward takes. From his bent position, Ed is able to push off from the concrete floor and plant his automail knee squarely between Boucher’s legs. There’s something _truly satisfying_ in watching the serpent drop to his knees, low enough that Bri would stand a fair chance of hitting his face if she tried to slug him. But, as Boucher goes down, the woman he had called Tam doesn’t so much as look _surprised_. What, is she used to watching him get the shit kicked out of him by a teenager? Whether she’ll do anything to defend him, Bri doesn’t yet know.

Ed, however, takes her earlier comment of disinterest and runs with it: “Well, lady, if you could just run along, you can get to those _better things_ you have to do, and we’ll just haul this asshole off to the nearest MP station. Win-win, right?”

She remains unamused.

“Look, I don’t wanna have to fight you,” Ed insists, his fists raised in a defensive fighting stance. “It’s _this_ piece of shit we’ve got a beef with. So, do yourself a favor and clear ou—”

But, in one fluid motion, the woman has slipped a syringe from her coat pocket and deposited its contents into a vein near Ed’s left wrist. And, as the blond stiffens, sputtering curses, only to collapse in a heap at his attacker’s feet, Bri realizes that the worst-case scenario may not have been so outlandish after all. A lump of terror clogs her throat even as she throws a punch at the woman, but her target has no trouble sidestepping the sloppy swing and delivering a sharp knife-hand to the back of her neck. With the world spinning, it’s all Bri can do to keep her head from cracking against the concrete.

“Children,” the woman scoffs from above her, “should be seen and not heard.”

By this time, Boucher has minimally recovered from Ed’s well-placed blow. He stands, wheezing with laughter, and closes the short distance between Bri and himself. “Y’know, you almost had us there, Spitfire. If we hadn’t been prepared, you might _actually_ have overpowered us.”

“Speak for yourself, Doyle,” tuts the woman. “It’s a hundred years too soon for these infants to get the better of me.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Tam.”

There’s the crack of a slap, and a yelp from Doyle.

“Address me respectfully, Doyle!”

“…Right. Sorry, Doctor Archer.” Make that the first time Bri has ever heard Boucher _cowed_. This woman must be some doctor.

With the back of her neck throbbing painfully, Bri pushes up to her hands and knees, lifting hateful eyes to Boucher. “Wh… what do you mean, prepared? You _knew_?”

The humored expression slides from Boucher’s face as he crouches and grabs her by the hair. “Knew? _Of course_ I fuckin’ knew! You _really thought_ you could pull one ov’r on me, didn’t ya? **Didn’t ya!?** ” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, of course, just takes a breath to calm himself before continuing, “Y’know, yer lucky that a little bird told me about yer naughty plans. She knew I’d find out anyway, of course, and decided t’plead to my _better nature_ rather than leave ya at the complete mercy of my displeasure.”

Bri’s eyes are wide as horror seeps into her skin. There’s only one person Boucher could be referring to… but… she wouldn’t really have—

“Poor little Bri. Trying so hard to bring the big bad Boucher to justice. _Tch_ , like there’s any real justice in the world.” When he releases her hair and stands straight again, he truly presents a towering figure. “Because Marj loves ya ‘n’ she supplicated so sweetly for ya, I’m gonna let you live, even aft’r tryin’ to backstab me.” And, after a moment’s thumb to chin, he amends that statement, “In fact, I’ll do ya one better: _yer cut loose_. I mean, with this little goldmine, it’s not like I’ll be hurting for funds without ya.”

It’s too much to process at once. She had to remember what Ed had told her to do if things went wrong. Mustang. She has to run and get Colonel Mustang. She has to go to Fiona and, as much as it hurts her pride and tests Boucher’s wrath to do so, ask for her help in getting in contact with Colonel Mustang.

“So,” Boucher continues, dusting himself off as if nothing had ever gone amiss, “our business is concluded. Show yerself out.”

“Is that really wise, Doyle?” asks his ally. “You don’t want her bringing the military here.”

“Oh, we’ll be long gone.” With a quick glance to a pocket watch, Boucher nods to himself and then gives Bri one last smirk. “Take good care of Marj for me, assumin’ you two don’t split up ov’r this little incident, of course. _Shit_ , that’d be some tragic irony.”

That almost sends her at him again, but she knows he can outmatch her in physical strength — there’d be no point. The best thing she can do for Ed and herself is to stick to his last-ditch plan. Even so, it stings that, even at a time like this, she has to do as Boucher says.

So, even with guilt and panic clawing at her insides, Bri bolts, and she doesn’t stop running until she reaches Fiona’s apartment. Breathless, disheveled, and lacking the time to explain herself, she can only gasp her way through the necessaries. For the first time, Bri has a respect for her sister’s ability to keep a cool head. Once Mustang is on the phone, Fiona sets a brief stage before looking to Bri for more information. Shortly, the phone changes hands to her to speed things up.

“Do you know where Boucher is headed now?” Mustang prompts, once filled in on the essentials.

“No.” Then again… if Boucher expects to be long gone quickly, and he had been checking the time near the end, then… “But, he might be trying to catch a southward train.”

“All right.” There’s strength in the colonel’s voice, reliability. Maybe it’s no wonder Ed had come to the conclusion that he is trustworthy after all. “Briana, you stay right there with your sister. I’ll take care of this. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

“…Okay.” Acknowledgement has barely left her lips before she hears the click ending the call. Now that the urgency of delivering information is wearing off, she feels shaky and clammy. Fi catches on to that quickly and guides her to the couch further in. For a long while, they do nothing but sit, Fiona’s arm around her, leaving a trail of smooth strokes against her upper arm. Finally, however, Bri finds words which need to be said.

“…I’m sorry… about before.”

Fi squeezes around her a little tighter, protectively. “It’s all right, dear.”

“He made threats. I… I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

A gentle kiss meets her sweaty forehead. “You were just doing what you thought was best. …Still, I wish you hadn’t had to bear this alone for so long.”

She hadn’t been alone, though, not completely. She’d had Marj. …Marj, who had sold her out, out of a misguided sense of sparing her from Boucher’s ire. Damn it all, she wants to be angry about it, but finds she lacks the energy to feel much of anything except general misery. Fiona brings her a blanket and tea and cautiously coaxes out some more of the awful tale — and it is awful; she sees her sister pale considerably, the more of it that comes out. As much as Bri doesn’t _want_ to talk about it, she’s trying to follow Ed’s advice to let Fi in, let her help. Plus, it helps pass the time that would otherwise be spent in anxious waiting for some news from Mustang.

Eventually, that time comes to an end. There’s a knock at the door, well after dark, and Fiona ushers in Colonel Mustang and—

“Ed!!” Beside herself with relief, Bri all but tackles the alchemist, who looks no worse for wear, aside from a little concrete dust.

“Ow, hey, Bri!” She’ll probably feel a little bad afterward for putting him in the awkward position of hugging her, but he pats her back all the same. “I’m okay. Sorry for scaring you like that.”

“She’s not the only one you scared.” With a swift thwap, Mustang smacks Ed upside the head. “What were you two thinking, going after an experienced crime boss by yourselves! I understand that you were under duress, but you have to be _smarter_ than to walk into a trap like that!”

“…Sorry, Colonel.” And Ed seems genuinely sheepish for his brash actions.

“…Yeah,” Bri agrees, glad that Mustang hadn’t smacked her as well. “Sorry.”

With a groan, Mustang helps himself to a seat on the couch and rubs his temples. “Well, it’s over now. I caught up to them in one of the outlying train yards and made short work of that Boucher individual. His accomplice, the blonde woman, got away, but at least you won’t have to worry about the mastermind anymore.”

Something in the pit of Bri’s stomach goes cold. “You mean… you killed him?”

“What? No.” Ed looks disturbed by the thought, too. “Death would be too kind a punishment for that asshole anyway. The colonel handed him off to the MPs — but not before I made good on my promise to kick him in the teeth.”

“With all the crimes he’s racked up,” Mustang sighs, “he’ll be in prison for a long, _long_ time.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” says Fiona.

For the second time tonight, Bri feels oddly detached from the goings on around her. Somewhere in that surreal haze, however, she remembers something important and clutches Ed’s sleeve.

“Ed… how am I supposed to talk to Marj about… all this?”

Everyone goes quiet at that, until Fiona makes the first step of a suggestion.

“I’ll go with you.”

Bri finds more comfort in that than she would have expected, and she nods, albeit numbly.

“Well, I’m done for the night,” says Mustang, picking himself up and heading for the door. “Don’t do anything else stupid, Fullmetal, you hear? At least for a while.”

“You got it,” and Ed even smiles, barely. “How about we all agree _not_ to tell Al how stupid I was tonight?”

Mustang just waves in acknowledgment.

“Speaking of,” Ed continues, “I need to be getting back, or Al’ll worry.”

Before he pulls away, however, Bri grips his sleeve tighter. “…Are you really okay?”

He takes note of her concern and nods. “He didn’t touch me. It was freaky getting jumped like that, and all, and I fuckin’ hate needles, but, in the end, we got him. That’s what matters.” And, reaching over, he ruffles her hair (which feels a little silly, coming from a guy shorter than her, but it makes her smile). “Take care, okay?”

“Mm-hmm. You, too.”

“Don’t I always?” And he grins on his way out.

+.+.+

Having spent the night at Fiona’s, Briana feels as prepared as she’s going to get to confront Marjorie about what had happened. Mm… maybe confront isn’t the right word, but still. As they reach the dorms of the Institute, Bri is again surprised by how much peace Fi’s presence there brings her. Maybe there’s hope for their friendship as sisters after all.

As it turns out, however, Marjorie isn’t at the dorms. Neither are her belongings or suitcase. The only sign that she had ever been there at all, in fact, is a letter laid on the stripped mattress. Bri’s fingers are shaking as she picks it up, and, after a few fumbling attempts to open it, she discloses the page within. The paper still smells like Marj, and is blotched here and there by tears. Even her handwriting, so usually impeccable, betrays signs of distress.

_Briana,_

_By now you’ll know, one way or another, what I have done, as I can’t imagine that Doyle won’t gloat in the fact. If I set my mind to it, I could probably weave reasons together long enough that you would forgive me — it would seem that living with that man for all of these years has imparted some of his silver tongue to me — but I shan’t. The simple fact of the matter is that I betrayed your trust, whatever hell-paving good intentions I may have had. Even in thinking I was saving you from the worst of danger, I put you and your friend in it. Not that it does any good to admit this now, but he said that, if I hadn’t been honest, you might have carried out your plan without a hitch. Might, mind you… but all the same. I took your chances from ‘might have’ to ‘definitely not’. And Edward, who needn’t have involved himself at all… I have no way of knowing if, as you’re reading this, he’s all right. I hope so. I hope you were able to overcome my thoughtless blunder. I hope you were able to beat Doyle at his own game._

_But do not let me gloss over this: when pressed between believing in your gumption and believing in Doyle’s cruelty… you see what I chose. Perhaps that is the worst betrayal of all. And it’s made me realize something, in the agonizing hours since: I don’t know my own mind. Not nearly as much as I thought, at least. The deeper I look, the more of Doyle is there. And I must question things I didn’t before. I must, Bri, or, whatever surficial freedom I may have gained in all this, I will still be under his influence. And that means I must even question everything… even us. Not you, for you have only ever been honest with me about how you feel, and I cannot help but adore you for it, but my part is much less straightforward. Did I come to love you because of my own feelings, or because it was most convenient to Doyle’s plans that I develop those feelings? The fact that I can’t answer with absolute certainty anymore is cause for wrenching concern. The danger that I may fail you again in the future, when you have suffered so much for my sake, and for a cause which had no real substance (for, yes, Doyle told me at last that the remaining debts had been forgeries of his imagination — I did slap him for that, at least), is great enough that I cannot ignore it. And so, even though it pains me more than I can express in words, I must leave. Leave Central, leave Doyle’s sphere of influence, and leave you. If I find an answer to these questions in my heart which shan’t break yours, I will return. If not, then…  well, I couldn’t bear the thought of facing you, after all this, only to tell you that none of it, none of me, was real._

_Knowing you, you’ll want to wait for me, so let me say this now: don’t. You’ll only hurt yourself more. Live, Bri. Look around and open yourself to the possibility of a better happiness, for your happiness is what I wish for most in this world. That much I can say without hesitation._

_Yours, with most sincere remorse,_

_Marjorie_

Bri pours over the page four times before the words truly sink in. By that time, her whole frame trembles so profoundly that Fiona’s hand comes to rest at her back in hopes of stabilizing her. At least her sister does her the courtesy of not reading over her shoulder. Too much would be too difficult to explain, and she hasn’t the strength for words of any sort right now. She just stares at Marjorie’s cruel lines, in a tug of war between tearing the letter to shreds and cradling it to her bosom. Marj had become so much of her life in Central, so much of her drive to overcome the hauntings of her own past and become a better person for all of it. And this farewell, this absence of her sweet Marjorie’s smile or warmth… it’s like a gaping wound. As if there’s nothing to keep all the life from bleeding out of her now.

They may have broken free of Boucher, even locked him away where he can’t hurt anyone else, but that man — that monster in a man’s skin — had still managed to have the last laugh.


	13. Fiona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions of implied noncon sexual scenarios, but nothing is said explicitly regarding them.

After the incident of Edward’s brief, but nonetheless frightening, abduction, Fiona cuts down on her hours at the clinic. As if she could focus on work all day with the image of her poor, dear sister occupying every spare thought. Right now — no, for as long as Briana needs her — she is a sibling first and a therapist second.

She had read the letter they had found in the dormitory, once Briana had given her permission, but hadn’t understood its full measure until some time later, when Bri had told her as much as she could bear of all that had taken place between her and Marjorie Ullman, and the part Doyle Boucher had played in their bond. It is a cruelty she hadn’t thought could exist in this world, but it only deepens her compassion toward her sister. Having met before with Carter Tucker, and having been quite taken by storm herself by growing affection for Keith Knox, she knows she has no place to judge who a person finds their heart drawn to, regardless of what social barriers stand between. She hopes Bri feels that sympathy from her. It’s… been rather difficult to see much of _any_ feeling in her sister since the day Marjorie had vanished. But she can’t be quick to expect a worst-case scenario, even with the memory of their brother. Wounds such as these would take a long time for _anyone_ to heal.

The first thing Fiona had done is provide a safe space for Bri. No more Institute of Fine Arts, no more societal demands. She need only attend events she wishes to, and, otherwise, she has the run of the apartment which has now become jointly _theirs_ . She knows that, eventually, Grandmother will try to put her foot down, but at least she can protect Bri in the meantime. Initially, she had suggested sending her home, but Bri had refused that option outright — not that Fiona can blame her. It can’t be a easy thing to face one’s parents after going through what Bri has. However, this resultant cocoon may end up doing harm as well as good, because Bri shows little interest in anything and spends much of her time _quite literally cocooned_ in a blanket on the couch.

Even Edward hadn’t been able to lift her spirits before his and Alphonse’s departure for the North on a new lead for restoring their bodies. He and Bri had shared a conversation in low tones, at the end of which he had gripped her hands tightly and gotten her at least to look him in the eyes, as if ensuring that she understood something — or maybe, extracting a promise from her? In either case, Fiona is grateful that Edward tries. But, once the brothers are gone, Bri is alone. Fiona is there for her sister as much as she can be, but… there is still the matter of their gap in ages and temperaments… and now experiences. Maybe it would be better to have someone around who could connect with the younger Clellan more easily, help bridge that chasm between sisters.

Does Bri realize, she wonders, how much this feels like a repeat of their past shared horror? Probably not, else she would never put Fiona through this. She’s so deeply lost in loneliness and despair — in abandonment, really — that she isn’t even aware of how her actions are affecting others around her.

So, after hitting enough roadblocks with Briana’s situation, Fiona resorts to something desperate and, quite honestly, distasteful: she secures permission to see Doyle Boucher. She makes sure to check with Briana beforehand that it’s all right for her to do so, of course, but gets little reaction beyond: “Sure. Fine.” Well, consent is consent in this case, regardless of enthusiasm. Killing two birds with one stone, Fiona uses the scheduled times for her visits to one of the stations of Central Prison to set up dates for Bri to interact with other people. Whether it’s their cousins, or else Glacier and Elicia, it will take a little weight off of Fiona’s mind to know that, even if she isn’t there all the time, _someone_ is keeping a caring eye on her little sister. And she needs all the space available on her shoulders to bear weight, considering the task before her. Why she had decided to do this, she’s still figuring out. But, as she strides down a cold, concrete hallway, escorted by a guard and steered past catcalling prisoners, she at least grapples with several harsh realities. One: that Boucher is a monster of man’s making. Two: that he had poisoned his goddaughter, Marjorie, and quite possibly Bri as well. Three: that she is not going to let that poison take hold.

Thankfully, Boucher is in solitary, so they’ll have some privacy. When the guard opens the door for her, Fiona steps in with all the confidence she has, even though that takes swallowing down more than a little fear. The man looks little different from the one occasion on which she had met him prior, simply disheveled and in a prisoner’s uniform — and he apparently recognizes her, because a grin spreads across his face, showing three missing teeth on the left side. Edward’s handiwork, no doubt… or _footwork_ , rather.

“Miss Clellan,” he greets with a surprisingly courteous nod, “or, should I say _Doctor_?”

“ _Miss_ is just fine, Mr. Boucher.” Once the guard seems satisfied that the cuffed prisoner won’t try anything funny, he steps out to stand watch and wait for Fiona to finish, closing the door behind. Barely has that taken place than Boucher laughs.

“Such formality, though? I mean, you ‘n’ I are practically relatives, ain’t we?”

Fiona’s eyebrow arches. “How so?”

“Well, there’s Marj, your little spitfire of a sist’r, then yourself — it’s a hop, skip, ‘n’ a jump, really.”

Ah… Sitting in the chair the guard had prepared for her, Fiona smooths the front of her skirt as her best way of stalling, until: “Unfortunately, your chain of logic is missing its first link.” Which makes it Boucher’s turn to show confusion and her turn to offer explanation. “Marjorie left town — the same day of your apprehension, actually.”

Hazelnut eyes widen in a shock she judges to be honest, especially since Boucher takes an extra moment before voicing his thoughts. “Damn. I… didn’t expect her t’do that. I mean, I took a few cracks at Spitfire about somethin’ like that happenin’, but—”

“—If you please, Mr. Boucher,” Fiona cuts in: calm, but firm, “address my sister by name. She is far from fond of your chosen nickname for her.”

Her directness seems to amuse him, because he smiles again. “If ya insist. I can’t say _no_ to a pretty lady such as yourself.”

Though she smiles back, it is purely for civility’s sake. “I’m afraid, Mr. Boucher, that flattery will not get you much of anywhere with me. Not when I am well-aware of your reasons for bestowing it.”

“What a shame.” And he feigns a pout. “I was already thinkin’ up some compliments I was _sure’_ d make ya flush.”

“A shame, indeed.” Certainly, she is never this curt with her clients, but, then again, she’s never sat with a seasoned criminal before, let alone a man who had abused her sister. A small, very improprietous part of her would like nothing more than to _throttle_ this individual in retribution. But reaping injury from injury sown… that just doesn’t sit with her. Maybe that’s Papa’s values bleeding into her, but they have served her well thus far, haven’t they?

“Right.” Untucking a clipboard from her arm and clicking a ballpoint with her thumb, Fiona levels Doyle Boucher with the same expression she’s worn since setting foot inside: not unlike that of a strict nanny gauging what punishment is necessary for an unruly child. “Briana has told me a fair amount of your dealings with her and Miss Ullman, but different perspectives highlight different issues. I would like to hear your story, Mr. Boucher, from the beginning.”

To her surprise, he laughs, veritably _howls_. It puts a little crack in her sense of calm. After going on like that for a good minute, the man gets a hold of himself, wiping tears of mirth away from the corners of his eyes.

“From the beginnin’?” he echoes. “Ya _really want t’hear_ the whole sad, sorry tale?” With a snort, he tilts his head to one side, and his smile evolves into a sneer. “And yer sure ya won’t regret askin’ that? I’m not one t’skive on details, howev’r _indelicate_.”

With a gulp to steady her, Fiona replies, “I’m a therapist in the military, Mr. Boucher. Yours won’t be the first _indelicate_ story I’ve heard.”

+.+.+

Really, though: he hadn’t been joking. At the end of each visit (oh, she pities the poor guards who have to hear snatches of those conversations), she feels notably nauseous. Bri hadn’t been joking, either, when she’d supplied the summary of what she’d learned regarding Boucher’s formative years. To think such awful people truly exist in the world… It’s not so surprising at all that the result is a man as twisted as Doyle Boucher. Pity begins to mix with disgust.

But, she presses on. She must, if only to seek closure for Briana. If this is all that she can do for her sister, then she will give it her all. _She_ will deal with Boucher so that Bri doesn’t have to.

“You’re really sticking to this idea, huh,” Bri notes, peering at her over a glass of water during supper. “Well, whatever makes you feel better, I guess.”

The apathy from Bri, on top of that day’s detailed account from her unorthodox (and _un-paying_ ) client, injects a bit of bile into the back of Fiona’s throat. “I’m hoping it can help me make _you_ feel better, _too_ , dear.”

Bri says nothing at that, though her expression indicates doubt clearly enough. …Maybe she’s right, but Fiona would rather try and end up without results than not try at all.

Thank the heavens for Keith. Not only has he continued to prove himself an upstanding gentleman, but also he has gone above and beyond to support Fiona at the soonest sign of her fatigue. Now that his own family situation has turned a corner for the better, Keith seems bound and determined to help Fiona ensure hers will as well. And, though Bri doesn’t miraculously warm up to him, by any means, he seems to secure her approval early on. In fact, the only times Bri puts effort into humor are to prod _“the lovebirds”_ (which is almost certain to make Fiona flush)… but, even there is a sadness concealed by dry wit. Fiona has to count her blessings that at least Bri isn’t pouring her hurts into _sabotaging_ them.

Speaking of sabotage, Fiona’s prediction of their grandmother’s interference proves true. About a month after Edward and Alphonse had departed for the North, Fiona receives a call from the Berkeley butler (Does Grandmother honestly still consider herself too refined to use a telephone herself?) conveying her wish to see the sisters _urgently_ . Truth be told, they had lasted longer than expected — but, perhaps she had been so occupied by high society that it had taken her a month even to _check up_ on Briana at the Institute, only to find that she had withdrawn. That would seem like her, at least.

A summons is a summons; better to see this matter through to resolution rather than ignore their relative and incur yet _more invasive_ measures by which to secure their attention. So, at the time specified, the two sisters arrive at their grandmother’s townhouse (which could probably be more aptly described as a small mansion), ready as they’re going to be to deal with Catherine Berkeley’s displeasure. Hardly have they crossed the threshold into the grand foyer when they are accosted by the very woman.

“Never have I been so insulted!” is the opening of her tizzy. “Never!”

Fiona surprises herself with how easily she imagines Bri whipping out some pithy retort, even more so with how the absence of such repartee worries her. Glancing at her sister, there are signs already of Bri’s shutting down: entering a mental hibernation where none of Grandmother’s scolding can reach her. Well… Fiona hardly blames her for protecting herself, but they are here so as _not_ to ignore this issue. As such, it looks like Fiona will have to speak on her sister’s behalf — a task for which she is far from unwilling.

“Grandmother,” she begins, but that seems to be their relative’s cue to cut her off.

“No, no, I shan’t hear it! Here I am, out of the goodness of my heart—” Fi does catch Bri rolling her eyes at that part, at least. “—providing for the education of my granddaughter so that she can take her place in society, and not only has my gift been tossed aside after these three years, but it has been done so without even _notifying_ me! Indeed, I have _never_ , in my life, been _so insulted!_ ”

“Then I guess that just proves what a sheltered, coddled life you’ve had, old hag.”

For a split second, Fiona believes this reprehension had come from her sister, but, upon sharing a glance with her, Bri is equally surprised to have heard such bold admonishment uttered in such a proud woman’s presence. The mystery of the speaker, however, does not remain so for long, for, with the clack of military-grade boots against the polished tile floor, in strides, as if she owns with world, their eldest cousin.

“O-O-Olivier!” splutters Madam Berkeley, her face aflush with anger. “Wh-What did you just say to me!?”

“You heard me, croan, unless your ears have given out since the last time I saw you.” With a broad stance, Olivier crosses her arms and glowers. “Since you seem so determined to stick your hooked nose into everything that happens in the family, let me be the first to inform you: Father has just bequeathed the headship of the Armstrong family to me.”

This comes as a shock to everyone present, but no one moreso than their grandmother. “B-But Alex—”

“That weakling?” Olivier takes a moment to roar with laughter. “I wrested the right to head the family from him without even breaking a sweat. By the end of it, he was begging me for mercy, the pansy.”

“You hurt Alex?”

That is the first time Bri has spoken during the visit, and, in a way, perhaps it oughtn’t to surprise Fiona as much as it does. As imposing as their cousin is in first impression, he is the opposite from Olivier underneath all that rippling muscle: a tender-hearted man full of compassion. In the time spent with him, Fi can imagine that Bri would feel safe. And, if there’s one thing Fiona has learned riles up her sister, it’s hearing that someone has brought harm to someone who has been kind to her.

Olivier meets Bri’s glare effortlessly. “Nothing _permanent_. He’s just a whiny baby, is all.” It seems that only then does the major general take full notice of the Clellan sisters’ presence. After all, she had only caught the tail-end of their grandmother’s rant. “Come to think of it, you were a rather whiny baby yourself, when I last saw you, but that’s permissible, at the age you were then.” Turning now to Fiona, Olivier gives her a polite, albeit curt, nod of acknowledgement. “I’ve heard about your work in the military. Good things, too — not every soldier is as strong of body and mind as my Briggs men. These Central slackers need all the help they can get to toughen up.”

Though that is hardly the root purpose of Fiona’s efforts, she looks for the compliment in the criticism and smiles as warmly as she can muster. “It’s… good to see you again, Olivier.”

No doubt feeling she has been further slighted by the shift in conversation away from herself, Madam Berkeley calls all eyes back to her by declaring, in her shrillest, most demanding tone, “Well, then, Olivier, seeing as you are now the head of the Armstrong family, and your mother is Rhoslyn’s elder sister, do tell Briana here to return to the Institute immediately, before she becomes a _delinquent_!”

As the last of Grandmother’s voice echoes off the hard surfaces of the foyer, Fiona finds herself holding her breath. Even if Olivier clearly bears little fondness for their relative, will she agree with her on this matter? However, the moment that Fiona glances to Olivier, it’s clear that she has nothing to worry about, for the look in her cousin’s clear blue eyes, is nothing short of scathing disgust.

“I will do no such thing.”

“But Olivi—!”

“Quiet, you screeching bat!” Continuing to alarm everyone present, the major general grasps the hilt of her sword, tapping an impatient index against the butt of the guard. “You think that you have the right to lord over this family like a queen? Don’t make me laugh. Respect is something you _earn_ , not something you buy and sell as easily as you did your daughters.”

Grandmother is speechless, all the color drained from her livid face.

“Now, do yourself a favor and remove yourself from Central before I decide to embarrass you _in public_ . Mother, Father, and my sister your namesake are on their way to Xing, as we speak. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from that culture’s emphasis on _humility_ .” When Madam Berkeley remains rooted to the spot, Olivier lashes out as sharply as if she had drawn her sword. “Get your moldy ass _moving_!”

That, it seems, is more than the old woman can bear. She swoons and, supported by several of her servants, leaves the hall in a faint. Fiona does feel sorry for her, but… perhaps she will be the better for having her bubble of arrogance popped?

Olivier clicks her tongue indignantly. “So words are all it takes to send that woman crumbling down? Pathetic.” Then, with the air of an instructor laying out the moral of a lesson plainly, she adds, “In this world, it’s the strong who survive.”

“…Easy for someone who’s strong to say,” Bri mutters, but at an intentionally audible level. Fiona’s chest tightens upon hearing it, for such a retort reveals how deep a blow all of Briana’s experiences in Central have dealt her. Has Olivier truly touched so much of a nerve that Bri, despite her depression of late, is not content to keep silent?

Olivier’s visible eye narrows. “What was that?” But the question is rhetorical, for the major general has already crossed the stretch of tile between them and fixed Briana with a glare that could probably drill holes into a mountainside. “You think I’m mistaken? Or are you just complaining because you see yourself as weak?”

“…Isn’t a matter of how I see myself. It’s a matter of _fact_.”

“Tch.” It’s clear that Olivier does not approve one bit of Briana’s current gloom. “Just because you aren’t a soldier doesn’t condemn you to weakness. And I certainly don’t remember my cousins being so _pessimistic_.”

“ _Oh_ .” And, for a brief moment, Bri feigns surprise, but her tongue lashes out quickly enough, not unlike Olivier’s had. “Well, that was before one of us — the _soldier_ of us, at that — _hung himself_.”

“Bri,” Fi chides, trusting her tone to serve as enough caution and reprimand, but Olivier waves her down.

“No. I like that: your spunk. Maybe you’re not as weak as you think.” Relaxing by a margin, Olivier seems to weigh the situation. “So, you were here in Central studying at the family’s Institute, were you? Did you _care_ for any of it?”

Bri’s brow furrows. “…Not enough to make it worth it.”

Olivier snorts. “I quite agree. That woman tried to send _me_ there, once. You lasted longer in that stifling atmosphere than I did — an impressive feat in its own right.”

Bri remains unconvinced, as far as her expression informs — perhaps because she had only stayed at the Institute because she’d had little choice? Any irregularity in circumstances could have sent people asking questions, snooping into Briana’s life in ways Boucher would not have wanted. But none of that can be easily explained to their relative.

“That said, education is important. It’s your duty as a human being to seize the opportunities this world has for you, and you can’t do that unless you have half a clue of what you’re looking for.” With the scoffed side-note of, “Not that I consider that gaudy display of frippery to be a place of _education_ ,” Olivier plows forward, undaunted. “Since I _am_ the head of the family, and you, my cousins, fall loosely under such an umbrella, I will take charge of this matter _myself_.”

“Yourself?” Fiona echoes.

“Quite right. Since my transfer to Central, I’ve been absolutely _bored_. My current position consists of attending meetings with old, doddering men, who make a bigger fuss about their thinning hair than the state of our great nation.” Showing the closest to a smile she has all conversation, Olivier looks to Bri once more. “As I said, I like your spunk, cousin. But a spark isn’t worth much unless it’s fanned and fed into a proper flame. What do you say?”

Fi’s holding her breath again, having no special insight into Briana’s thoughts regarding such a question, and on such short notice. Does Olivier truly not see that she’s in pain, or is this her idea of therapy? Distraction, perhaps? There is some validity in the idea.

Finally, Briana looks up at Olivier directly and gives an answer — or, at least, half of one. “I have some conditions.”

A thin, blonde eyebrow arches with interest. “Such as?”

“Will you teach me how to use a sword?”

+.+.+

“So she’s takin’ t’swordplay that well, is she? Looks like ya were coddlin’ her too much, Miss Clellan.”

With every invocation of that tone, the one which seems to think its speaker knows Briana better than she does, Fiona finds it more and more strenuous to resist violent responses. It’s difficult enough to give Boucher as few crumbs of information regarding her own life (and Bri’s) as possible while satisfying the man’s curiosity, but then to have him chuckle and comment, as if he’s an old friend of the family… it’s _trying_ . Needless to say, this investment has deepened her capacity for patience and self-control with her _actual_ clients.

“It… does seem to be a pattern for older siblings to be… overprotective.” After clearing her throat, Fiona tries _once again_ to change the subject, “You’ve spent nearly half a year in this cell, Mr. Boucher. Has that brought about any thoughts you’d care to discuss?”

She has grown to expect a first response in jest, and Boucher delivers. “It’d be nice t’get laid.”

“…Noted.”

“Seriously, though: just because this is my first time t’be caught doesn’t mean I’m gonna und’rgo some transformation that’ll make me an upright citizen. I’ve been a man o’ my own makin’ since I came t’this country, and that’s how I intend t’remain.”

“So you don’t regret anything you’ve done? Not one act?”

She had expected an immediate _no._ Its absence makes her look up from her clipboard. Boucher’s expression is unreadable, but he does seem to be rolling his tongue over his missing teeth, as if in thought.

“…You’re a real noble one, y’know. Takes one hell of a gutsy woman t’come talk t’the piece of shit what messed up her baby sist’r.” With a leading tilt of head, he presses: “Was it worth it? Do ya feel closure now, Miss Clellan? Because, if not, I can only think yer some kind of _masochist_.”

“It’s not masochistic to dig your heels into resolve. Acting only when you’ll receive an immediate response or benefit doesn’t get one very far in life.”

“Mm… s’pose that’s so. Then… I guess we’re at somethin’ of an impasse. I’ve told ya what ya wanted t’know ‘n’ all, but I expected ya t’turn tail. Ya haven’t.”

“And _you_ haven’t answered my real question, Mr. Boucher. Avoiding the honest answer won’t help anyone.”

He scoffs, but then… his expression almost softens. _Almost_. “Marj’s old man was neglectin’ her, when I met him. With her moth’r dead, she had nobody. Didn’t seem right to leave her there. Don’t know if that made it right t’scam her fath’r outta her, but… up t’that point, my count o’ regrets is zero.”

Up to that point? A strange choice of wording, to be claiming no regrets at all. So… does that mean…?

“Things were all right until she started gettin’ old’r. Maybe I… got jealous. Thought takin’ care o’ her would make me feel bett’r about my old man. Get closure or somethin’. It didn’t. So I tried Plan B.”

“You…” Her intuition tells her this is the root of it, even if Boucher is still guarded about being forthcoming. His explanation makes the act no less deplorable, but at least now she has a clear reason from the man himself why he had done such despicable things to his goddaughter (and, in turn, to Bri). Watching her words, she finishes: “You thought experiencing it from the other side would give you that closure?”

Boucher gives the subtlest of nods.

“…And…” As disgusting as that would be, the psychologist in her is curious. “—did it?”

There it is again: that infinitesimal betrayal of softness. Boucher looks right at her. “Think ya know that already, Miss Clellan.” Silence has just started to seep into the air around them when he speaks again: “Once I’d given in, though, couldn’t undo it. Kept hopin’ somewhere in there, it’d click ‘n’ I’d find what I was lookin’ for. Probably sounds like somethin’ a crazy person’d do, huh.” And he chuckles, in spite of the solemnity of the situation. “Seems like she turned out all right, ‘nough t’protect your sist’r, but… yeah. Might regret that part.”

Well… _might_ is better than nothing. “Maybe you’ll be able to tell her as much yourself, one day.”

He laughs. “Doubt she’d wanna hear somethin’ like that from me. Doesn’t do anyone any good now.”

With a knowing sort of smile she doesn’t quite understand herself, Fiona gathers up her papers and stands. “You might be surprised, Mr. Boucher.”

“Leavin’ are ya? Say, Tell your sist’r I know a swordsman way bett’r than that Armstrong gen’ral. He’s a good fella, too — much more, uh, _upright_ than myself. If she’s int’rested, I’ll pass it along that she wants t’meet with him, get it all arranged.”

“Mr. Boucher,” says Fiona, turning to give him a final look over her shoulder, “Just how, pray tell, do you plan to pass along anything to anyone, from in here?”

He just grins. “People in here have sharp’r ears than you’d think, Miss Clellan. Who knows, maybe there are ears out there who’ll come a’runnin’ when I whistle. People in my world have a way o’ doin’ favors.”

That could be understood as a threat, but Fiona maintains calm. This isn’t the first time Boucher has talked tough, and it won’t be the last. “…Then _I’ll_ do _you_ the favor of not reporting your comments just now to the warden.”

The gleam in his eyes undoes all the work of any expressed regrets. “Yer too kind.”


	14. Carter

Xing had done them both a world of good. Staying with Master Zhao had given Carter the opportunity to renew his studies of alkahestry and refine his own techniques, and it had also (to his lack of enthusiasm) given Renata the excuse to pound more thorough self-defense skills into him. As for Solaris, a change of scene had helped her reconnect with her own humanity — her smiles grow more genuine, her laughs more full, her eyes more kind. (Carter has to admit to himself that he has found himself gazing absentmindedly in the direction of her eyes, though for what reason he chooses not to examine.)

Only a few clouds hover over their respite. One, of course, is the plot unfolding in the country from which they had fled. Another (mainly on Carter’s part) is Jean’s recovery, for Solaris’s attack had seemed quite serious. The other is whatever task that Boucher individual had given to Solaris in exchange for his silence. There are times when she will venture out on her own for days at a time (regardless of how much Carter asks to stay by her side), and, when she returns, she says nothing of her trips beyond sightseeing trivia. Renata seems to be watching her closely, but she is just as opaque on the subject. Perhaps Ishvala is testing his patience with both of them.

Thanks to training, the months seem to pass quickly, from fall to winter into the beginnings of spring. It’s only then that Solaris brings up a certain idea.

“You want to go _back _?” Needless to say, Carter is baffled.__

Solaris nods. “That creature—” for she has refused to call him Father since that day, “—will be carrying out his master plan soon. It wouldn’t surprise me if Colonel Mustang, the Fullmetal Alchemist, and their allies have thought up some way to fight against him, but… I’ve begun to wonder if I have a duty to fight, too.”

“But…” There are a dozen reasons. Since the day she had escaped with Carter, her Philosopher’s Stone has been that of a single soul’s energy: her own. To tap into that for the sake of battle… “Isn’t it enough that you’ve turned against him? Hasn’t that robbed him of a valuable asset?”

“That’s exactly my point.” And she lifts a finger, not unlike an instructor. (There are times when she does speak to him as if he is a small child compared to her… and, in a way, he is, but still!) “Maybe you and I can convince the others to abandon him as well. If they knew what I knew…  I can’t imagine that they would continue to feel loyalty to a being who took their lives from them and reshaped them into his puppets.” She sighs. “You know there’s a debt I need to return to Amestris to repay, but there is another debt of the past two hundred years which takes precedence. I think… if I don’t try, I won’t be able to forgive myself for what I was, all that time.”

Her conviction is infectious. Maybe that’s a special power of hers, or maybe he honestly wants an excuse to emerge from hiding as well. Even if it might seem like the power of one man on such a large scale can’t amount to much, if the whole country of Amestris is in danger, then there’s nowhere else they should be. “…All right.”

Thanks to his adolescent years of desert travel, the difficulty of the Xing crossing is lessened. Using the locations of sheltered watering holes and of shady rock outcroppings lengthen their journey, but lessen the risks. In charting their path, for the sake of time and focus, Carter chooses not to pass through Koblen on their way toward Central. If they and their allies win the upcoming struggle, then there will be time afterward to come home. If not, well… then it won’t matter, will it…

The closer they get to Central, the more Solaris checks over her shoulder. Carter doesn’t blame her for it; that shadowy sibling of hers could already have spotted them by now. Granted, Solaris had cut her hair short during their time in Xing (Master Zhao had suggested it as a symbol of her new life), but that alone is likely not enough to make her unrecognizable to one who would have known her face for two and a half centuries. But they progress unimpeded, and, by Solaris’s calculations of the approaching Day of Reckoning, they reach Central with two days to spare. Plenty of time to take care of other business before anyone (friend or foe) springs a plan, right?

First: to deal with what they owe Boucher, Carter follows Solaris into a seedy district of the city. Thanks to his continued studies in alkahestry, his range of sensing chi has broadened, meaning that he _should _be able to detect the unwholesome sensation indicative of a homunculus’s presence before any appear, but hopefully it can also protect them from any equally dangerous humans by robbing potential assailants of the element of surprise. Then again, perhaps his precautions are unnecessary, with the way Solaris has suspicious characters scurrying back with but a _glare _.____

When they reach an establishment that exudes all manner of unpleasant auras, Carter sticks especially close to his companion (and he is glad that Solaris does not pause to give him grief for how uneasy he is in this situation). The entrance itself is nothing especially noteworthy: a sign painted above the door to read _The Butcher _, with a plaque mounted on the door itself that Carter only scans in passing: _Out to kill some time or cut off the things in life weighing you down? Look no further. We’ve got the distractions you need. _So _that’s _the sort of place this is. All the more reason to steel himself.______

Still, upon setting foot inside, he doesn’t get an _immediate _ominous sense. In some ways, The Butcher resembles an ordinary bar. (Granted, he’d only seen the inside of an ordinary bar once, the night Jean had accidentally gotten him drunk.) But the glances given them by the staff are enough to remind him to watch his step. Solaris, however, strides with confidence across the foyer of the bar and addresses the tender.__

“I’m looking for Boucher.”

Carter thinks there could be subtler ways to ask, but Solaris does have a tendency to convince people to do what she wants. The bartender glances at a colleague, then shakes her head. “Can’t reach him directly right now. You wanna get him a message, you talk to the doctor.”

“All right, then where do I find this doctor?”

“You already have.” The voice comes from behind them, and the hairs on the back of Carter’s neck prickle. Rising from an armchair is a woman as pure Amestrian as it gets, with a commanding aura that seems even to rival Solaris’s. Her piercing blue eyes size up the two travelers before she approaches them, a glass of champagne in one hand. “It’s been some time, Madam Lust. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Comprehension crosses Solaris’s face. “Ah. So you’re calling yourself a _doctor _now, are you, Madam Archer?”__

“I never pretended _not _to be a doctor,” says Dr. Archer, a sly smile curling in one corner of her mouth, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be _other things _as well.” All of her attention now seems to be on Solaris — indeed, the only glance she had given Carter had been in evaluation, and he could have sworn he had seen condescension when their eyes had briefly met. “Doyle mentioned that he had made an arrangement with you — do you have what he wanted?”____

Solaris nods. “—Although, I would prefer if we could continue this conversation privately.”

With her disconcerting smile making a polite detour, the doctor nods and, after finishing and setting down her glass, directs them toward the back of the bar. Solaris must realize how worrisome this venue is for Carter, because she turns to give him a reassuring nudge and a brief, but soft smile. “We’ll be done here before you know it.”

He could be cheeky and point out that he _already knows _they’re here, but opts for a meek nod instead. Solaris must have a plethora of knowledge when it comes to dealing with the underworld, considering the past two hundred years and some. He’ll trust her judgement; if she says they’re safe (at least for now), then that’ll have to be good enough.__

Dr. Archer leads them along a hallway in the back of the establishment, until they pass through one of the several doors lining it, behind which is a long staircase downward — at least three stories’ worth, by Carter’s estimation. The brick passage on either side of the staircase is lit, but not well enough to banish shadows from the underhangs of the steps’ slats. Carter feels his hands begin to sweat in earnest. The deeper they go, the closer they get to the unnatural pulsation at the center of this country: the monster which had made puppets of Solaris and her ‘siblings’. Don’t they run the risk of discovery by going this far underground?

But, the moment he has built up the urge to point out as much to Solaris, they reach the bottom of the stairs. Here they find a laboratory of sorts, impeccably clean, with several doors leading who knows (and Carter certainly doesn’t want to) where.

“Now, then,” says the doctor, “The information Doyle sought?”

“I have it here,” and Solaris retrieves a small notebook from her satchel. “I daresay he should find it satisfactory.”

Archer hums pensively, as if she is not wholly convinced.  But, she accepts the notes and thumbs through them, reading at tremendous speed. (At least, such is the conclusion to which Carter jumps, when, the further she gets, the wider her eyes grow.)  “…I see,” is her only comment. One well-manicured finger taps metronomically on the cover of the notebook, which has the strange effect of stretching out what is otherwise silence, until—

“If you require nothing more from me, _Doctor _Archer, my companion and I would like to be on our way.”__

She considers them for a moment longer before answering, “It’s not so much a requirement as a request, Madam Lust. You see, my business partner went and landed himself in prison, several months back, and I think he’s sat there long enough to learn his lesson, so I would like to see him released.”

“Boucher was _caught _?”__

“Oh, yes. It was quite the commotion. The Flame Alchemist himself ran him to ground. Since he’d done something so stupid as not to cover his tracks better, I left him to be captured. But I think half a year is enough time for him to pay penance for that, don’t you?”

If this is the man Carter remembers, he has a feeling that _twenty _years wouldn’t be enough to make Doyle Boucher feel remorse. But, before any protest can be voiced, Archer continues. “I’ll even pay you in advance. With all the racket poised to go off in the next two days, I’m sure you’ll be wanting all the help you can get.”__

“…How do you mean?” asks Solaris, her golden eyes trained on Archer as the latter woman crosses to a shelf and opens a strongbox. But the question answers itself when, from the dull contents of the box emerges, in Dr. Archer’s hand, a phial filled with red, glowing liquid.

Though Carter had never seen one up-close before, the description, as well as the concentrated nausea that crawls around his insides at the sight of it, is more than enough to confirm his suspicions. “A… Philosopher’s Stone?”

“Oh, so you’re _not _there just for looks,” snides Archer, and, even in the supposed _compliment _, he gets the feeling that she finds him repulsive. “Yes, I’ll give you this Stone. You did such excellent work with this research, Madam Lust, that Doyle’s mere cooperation would not balance the ledger, so this will cover that overage as well as your assistance in — what’s the phrase? — _busting him out _of Central Prison. I’m sure you know the one: right next to where the Fifth Laboratory used to stand?” She swirls the phial slowly, no doubt aware that both her guests’ eyes are glued to the extracted essence of human life. But Carter tears his eyes away to look at Solaris, to discern from her face what she intends to do. Undoubtedly, there is a security she could gain from replenishing her Stone, but… the souls…______

“Where did you get the material for that, Doctor Archer?”

“Where do I always get my materials, Madam Lust? Had you not been abroad, you wouldn’t have seen as much trash walking around, as of late.”

Carter’s stomach turns.

“The bodies?” Solaris presses.

“Long since disposed of, if that’s where you’re going with these questions.” She sighs. “Look, if you’re trying to be all good-hearted and noble now, that’s one thing, but you’ll still have an awful hard time out there, trying to protect what you love or some such, without this. Two hundred years of fighting without fear of death is a hard habit to break, I’d imagine.”

Solaris clenches her fists, but says nothing at first, so Archer continues, “If _you _don’t take it, this Stone will get handed off to some unsavory character and put to who knows what use. Does that help your conscience make up its mind?” Though her voice is cold and detached as she discusses issues of morality and ethics, the words themselves bear weight. Visibly steeling herself, Solaris approaches Archer and holds out her hand.__

“We have a deal. I’ll break Boucher out during the ruckus.”

“Much obliged.”

Solaris moves to one side in the room with the Stone in hand, and Carter opts not to intrude on her privacy. It can’t be an easy thing for her, taking something like that into her body again. And, though it wrenches his gut, only Ishvala can judge her actions as right or wrong. His place is to support her — little more.

“You seem to know a great deal about what is about to happen, Doctor Archer,” he says, if only to distract himself.

She just smiles (or, as close to a smile as she seems able to get). “People like to talk an awful lot in the underworld, boy.”

_Boy _? But she can’t be that much older than him… right? For a moment, he glances Solaris’s way, as if to remind himself of what’s already surprised him this past year. When he looks back to Archer, she seems to have gleaned his thoughts and chuckles.__

“Close. Not quite, but close.”

A red light arches out from where Solaris stands, and she winces aloud. But, by the time Carter reaches her side with concern, the pain seems to have passed. Solaris grips his shoulder to reassure him before nodding. “I… I’m all right.” But it stings him all the same when, as she looks up at him, the gold has been swallowed up by wine-red. Perhaps that’s why she squeezes more tightly. “I’m all right, Carter. It’s still me.”

He must have zoned out a little, because his own nod seems rote and numb, but Solaris takes his hand and leads him back towards the stairs.

“Are you going to meet up with the other Ishvalans?” Archer calls after them.

That gets Carter’s attention. “The what?”

But Archer is already waving him off. “Never mind. …Oh, but there is a little alkahestrist girl who’s been wandering around asking after a scarred Ishvalan.” With a knowing smirk, she prods, “That wouldn’t be you, right, boy?”

A description he knows. “…No, that’s not me.”

“Oh, well. Of you go, then. Perhaps we’ll do business again someday.” And, with that, they make their way from the underground chamber and leave The Butcher.

+.+.+

“Do you really think splitting up is a good idea?” he asks again.

“Yes,” she presses. “Putting you in that kind of danger is unnecessary. Besides, maybe you can find out about the other Ishvalans Archer mentioned. Maybe… Maybe they’re involved with whatever’s going to happen the day after tomorrow.”

It’s night by now. If they’re going to divide and conquer, Carter still thinks they should wait until morning. The last thing he needs is to get lost in unfamiliar Central streets in the dark. Perhaps Solaris reads as much from his face, because she sighs and relents with, “Look, we’ll stick together until daybreak. For now, you won’t be of much use tomorrow unless you sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” And the dim streetlamps catch the red glow of her eyes.

“…Right. Okay.” Not that he feels any better about that, but he knows better than to argue with Solaris.

Since Carter isn’t picky when it comes to makeshift beds, he keels over on a sturdy park bench and curls up. At least the weather is warm enough that he doesn’t need a blanket to get comfortable: a welcome relief, since he wouldn’t have one at present even if he had needed one. To travel light once reaching Central, they had stashed most of their luggage in an old dugout bunker Solaris had known of on the outskirts of the city, so concealed by foliage that someone would have to be looking for it to find it. So, Carter drifts off easily enough, and… is it his imagination, or do Solaris’s fingers wander into his hair before he fades completely? That’d be a nice dream, he supposes.

Solaris shakes him awake just before dawn, pressing a finger to her lips as she does so. It only takes him that first delay of waking up to realize that she’s concerned. “I heard something,” she whispers. “Someone sneaking around, watching us.” Cautiously, Carter reaches out with his senses and, sure enough, someone with tense chi is nearby, as well as a small animal and… an unusually small body for him to be sensing sentient chi coming from it. He points in the direction for Solaris and she nods. Cautiously, they approach the spot, until a spray of small knives — Carter counts five — flies at them. Though Solaris knocks them aside with her spearlike fingers, if Carter wasn’t awake before, he _certainly _is now.__

From the hiding place springs out… a young girl, perhaps twelve years of age (though it’s hard to tell, with her being rather petite). Immediately discernable as Xingese from her garb and features (not to mention sporting a miniature panda upon her small shoulder), their small assailant addresses them in a high and clear voice. “Have you come to take back your friend, homunculus? Well, too bad! It’s my guide, and I won’t hand it over without a fight!”

“ _What _?” Carter and Solaris are equally perplexed. Through enough cautious explanation, however, the misunderstanding is sorted. The girl introduces herself as one Mei Chang, a princess of Xing, here in search of immortality. (In a moment’s shared glance, Carter and Solaris connect this meeting to what Dr. Archer had said of a young alkahestrist wandering the city.)__

“So, you’re going to fight against that evil being tomorrow, too?” After a moment’s pondering, the girl returns to her hiding spot and retrieves a sizeable jar. “Then perhaps you, madam, as a homunculus, can convince my guide to tell me where I may find the true secret of immortality!”

For a moment, Carter has no idea what she means, but then, from underneath the cloth covering the jar, comes a voice, a raspy squeak. “The fuck are you talking about, pipsqueak!? I’ve been telling you this whole time!! And what the fuck’s this about a homunculus!? No homunculus would help humans of their own will! You’ve gotta be fucking… with…” Because, by the time the tiny tirade has run its course, Mei has removed the cloth so that one party can see the other. Inside the jar is a small chameleon-like creature with a gaping, leechlike mouth and angry reddish-pink eyes. In one instant, however, introductions become unnecessary, because, when that creature and Solaris look at each other, recognition is instantaneous.

“…Envy.” Behind her shock, Carter believes he can see… is it relief? Joy, even? But, as for Envy, the only emotion Carter can discern from that unsettling countenance is anger, perhaps of the wounded sort.

“Lust.” What starts as a breathless gasp, however, quickly curls into a snarl. “Lust. Why… Why the fuck are you here? Didn’t… Didn’t that Flame bastard kill you? And why the fuck are you with _him _!? Of all the worms out there!?” Pointing a grubby finger at Carter. “Don’t tell me Pride was _right _, and you really had fallen for a lowly, ugly, weak piece of shit like that!? Or… did you just use him to get away? Were you just sick of it, like Greed was? Did you wrap this puny human around your finger and bone him enough to keep him on a leash? _Haha _!”______

Carter would quite like to cover poor Mei’s ears, if this is the level of conversation this homunculus usually conducts. Then again, he’s probably turned about a red as she has. Even Solaris betrays the slightest flush. “ _‘Fallen for’ _is such an overused expression. Leave it to say that I care for Carter, yes. But you don’t seem to have any trouble assuming the worst of me very quickly, Envy.” And her expression grows a little… sad. “Aren’t you the least bit happy that I’m alive?”__

Envy growls. “Hard to be happy when you only come back from the dead to be Father’s enemy.” He then glares at Carter. “…Wait half a fucking second. Your specialty is in messing with people’s heads, isn’t it, mutt?”

It… takes a great deal of willpower not to flinch at being called that. “That’s not how I would put it, but—”

“ _Aha _! Now it all makes sense!” Envy sits back on his haunches and gesticulates wildly. “ _Hahaha _, yes, I see, I see! _You’re _the one who fell for _her _, isn’t that right, mutt! So you messed with her head so that she’d go along with _whatever _you wanted~! Maybe you’re the one who’s eager to bone her, huh, _huh _?” He cackles. “Wow, Lust, to think you could be overpowered by a mere mortal so easily!”____________

“Enough, Envy.” And Carter _does _flinch at the authority in her voice, especially when she looks then to him. “Show him.”__

“Huh? Y… you mean—”

“Please, Carter.”

Envy squints up at them. “What’re you two on about? Show me what?” But comprehension seems to dawn on the homunculus when Carter grips the jar. “D… don’t fuck with me. Your cheap human mind tricks won’t work on me,” but there is uncertainty in the squeaky voice now. Even through the jar, Carter can feel Envy’s chi and can use the glass between them as a conduit. Mei’s brow creases, but she says nothing as Carter recreates (to the best of his ability) the effect from the time Solaris has introduced herself to him, only amplified enough to bring back as much as he can as quickly as possible.

Envy recoils, no doubt from feeling the foreign chi touch him, but does nothing but mutter curses under his breath until Solaris addresses him, her voice calm and even. The story she tells is a familiar one to Carter, for, during their months abroad, Solaris had shared it with him as more and more details had come back to her, but there is a thread here which he does not recall from her previous retellings: an engagement with a prince of Xerxes who had loved her with a deep and true strength. However, he had been sacrificed in a preparatory ritual for the King’s immortality, and she had, to her own last breath, thought him dead… until recently.

“If you’re trying to put me to sleep with this dumb sob story,” Envy intercuts, even though he adamantly refuses to meet Solaris’s gaze, “ _by all means _, continue.” Carter marvels at Solaris’s patience.__

“So,” she sighs, “you don’t remember?”

Envy snarls. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I remember or don’t, because I already know that you — or, rather, the mutt — made it all up! There’s no fucking _point _to any of this except for that grubby human to sink his teeth deeper into your addled brain! I’m not fucking falling for _any _of this shit!”____

For the briefest moment, her lip trembles. “…And that’s your final answer, is it?”

“You bet your ass it is. Now… get the fuck outta my sight. What you’ve sunk to _disgusts _me, Lust.”__

With a solemn face, she stands from where they had long since crouched around the jar. Carter makes to follow her, but she places a hand on his shoulder. “It… would probably be better if he doesn’t remember speaking to us, then, in case he comes into contact with the others.”

Carter nods. What else _can _he do, even with empathy for Solaris’s pain clawing at his chest? Bowing politely to Mei, he explains, “I would appreciate it if you don’t mention us to him after I perform this next transmutation.”__

The poor, sweet girl is wiping tears from her large dark eyes, having been moved by Solaris’s account. “O-Of course,” she hiccups. Trying to compose herself, she asks, “Perhaps, another time, you can explain your technique? I can tell you’re using alkahestry, but perhaps there is also alchemy involved? Mr. Scar might be able to understand it more intuitively than me, but—”

“So, you _are _acquainted with the man known as Scar?” He had found that part of Archer’s information notably difficult to believe.__

She brightens a little a that. “Of course! He helped me find Xiao Mei and let me travel with him as I searched for immortality! He’s a good person!” But she must discern that this declaration has made Carter uneasy, because her smile falters.

“…I wish to believe that his heart seeks Ishvala’s will, but… I’m afraid that, so long as he carries out that will through murder, I cannot agree as to his goodness.”

“You don’t need to worry, then! He doesn’t do that anymore! Mr. Scar told me that he wants to change Amestris now, instead of punish it! He’s really a good person, I promise!”

Carter offers her a smile at that. “I’m glad to hear of it.”

Before Carter carries out his task, however, he sees Envy’s eyes following Solaris, who has stepped away and turned her back, no doubt to hide whatever pain her face may threaten to betray. Leaning down a little farther, Carter addresses the homunculus in low tones. “Are you lying to her?”

Envy hisses at him. “You’re really stupid, mutt. _Tch _, even if this shit I’m remembering is real, what good does it do me now? Do you see the fucking state I’m in? The fucking state of this stupid human country? You’re all going to get sucked up into Father by this time tomorrow, so there’s literally no fucking point in switching to the losing side now.”__

“So, you don’t think that, if enough people switched to the losing side, it could become the winning side?”

“Pull your pipe dream outta your ass, mutt. You’d just as soon be trying to stop the sun in the sky.” He pauses and then sighs. “Hurting her feelings now is better than giving her some crummy false hope that any of you will make it out of tomorrow. So, yeah, do me the favor of wiping all this shit outta my head. I don’t need any of it in the world Father’s going to create.”

That’s it, then. With a heavy sigh, Carter replaces the cloth around the jar and touches the glass once more. When done, he stands and joins Solaris.

“I’m all right,” she says, when, clearly, she isn’t. But Carter nods, all the same.

Before they part ways with Mei, she tells them where Ishvalans have been gathering in the city (proving Archer’s other piece of information true as well), and they leave in that direction. But, upon reminding Carter that she has an obligation to fulfill at Central Prison, Solaris branches off, promising to catch up once she frees Boucher. As Carter traverses the Central streets, the city life seems quiet and peaceful. There are moments when he’s tempted to give some warning to the citizens he passes, but… no, even if someone believed him, that would only sow the seeds of panic.

Crossing Central on foot is no short trip, so, by the time Carter eventually encounters a fellow Ishvalan, it’s midday. When he is brought to meet the main group, he spends the next many hours being informed of their purpose in Central. Just as Solaris had first wondered, they intend to play a part in rescuing Amestris from the Homunculi’s scheme. It surprises him at first to hear that Scar is the key to success, but he supposes this is but proof that young Mei had judged the best of that man’s heart accurately. Perhaps, at long last, Carter can say he has reached the state of forgiveness and understanding for which he had prayed when he had pursued Scar in the sewers of East City. For that, he offers a prayer of thanks before asking the present elder what he can do to help.

By sunset, he has been assigned to one of five groups carrying a diagrammed transmutation circle: the catalysts for Scar’s plan to correct this country’s alchemy. Even as he follows the cluster of his brethren, however, Envy’s words haunt him. Could all of this really be pointless? Is it possible that his final hours could better be served at Jean’s side? (Great God, Carter doesn’t even know where Jean _is _right now.) Doubt makes his hands shake and his heart stutter. But then… he thinks of Solaris. She, of anyone, should know how desperate, hopeless even, their situation is. And yet, she has not wavered in her resolve to fight. How inspiring a figure she is, Carter muses. Once all of this is over, he hopes to take her with him to find Jean, so they can all sit down together and explain themselves. And then… well, only Ishvala knows what will happen, but he will leave whatever future he has in those capable hands.__


	15. Briana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter introduces a character many may not know: Pitt Renbak. He is a major character in the FMA light novel, Under the Faraway Sky, which I include in my FMA fanon. But don't worry, I fill in the need-to-know info.
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of sexual content, but all consensual this time.

Learning how to handle a sword would have been more satisfying if Cousin Olivier would actually have let her kill something. As things are, she’d thrown herself into the skill for the sake of distraction — better than sitting around Fi’s apartment feeling sorry for herself all day, right? Ed had made her redouble her promise not to give up before he had left, so she has to do _something_ . All the more so when Olivier informs her of Edward’s disappearance in the North. Distraction becomes a drug that she has to pump into her veins to make herself move. (How’s that for sick irony? Boucher’d just _love_ to hear that analogy come from her.) It’s the only way she can stop herself from thinking about Marj.

In the winter after Edward goes missing, Fiona’s squeeze Keith takes on a pupil. Or, rather, an aspiring medical student comes to Central and gets it into his head to study under Knox, Sr., only to be shunted onto Knox, Jr., until he can pass the necessary examinations to be registered as a resident proper. So, when Bri visits with Keith during Fiona’s (wholly unnecessary and pointless) trips to Central Prison, she ends up spending a great deal of time with this pupil. Less than a year older than her, Pitt Renbak could almost be mistaken for a relative, with his curly caramel hair and hazel eyes, not to mention the splash of freckles across his sharp nose. …In a way, maybe even in a good way, he reminds her of Cob. Much to her surprise, he hails from the same Eastern village as Edward and Alphonse and has been friends with them for as long as any of them can recall. According to Pitt, he and Ed had been quite the team of troublemakers in the village, but, after the brothers had left Resembool, Pitt had cleaned up his act (for the most part) and set out to fulfill his own goal of becoming a travelling doctor specializing in herbal remedies, just like his father. His journey had led him to an apprenticeship in a nondescript town in the boonies, but — low and behold — not a year later, Ed and Al ended up in the very place when Ed had overworked himself and caught a bad cold. Though he and Ed had argued plenty during that reunion, in the end, they had come to understand each other better. And, ever since, Pitt had thrown his whole energy into studying so that he could become a doctor.

It’s an inspiring story and all, Bri supposes, but Pitt’s dream isn’t what she pulls away from his account. There’s… something about the way he talks when Ed is the subject. For a while, she chalks it up to the depth of their friendship, but, when she catches him gazing out a window with a glazed expression shy of blissful, she decides to entertain herself a little, even if it comes at his expense.

“Not daydreaming about _Ed_ , are you?”

Pitt’s hand slips out from under his chin as he starts from his reverie. Though he says nothing, the dumbstruck look on his face is about as good as a confession. Bri could choose, of course, to make him suffer under her own hurts when it comes to love, but… Ed is her friend. One of the only true friends she’s got left, wherever he is. So, with a sigh, Bri pats Pitt’s shoulder. “Don’t have a heart attack, but you were getting kind of obvious with the way you go on and on about him. I get that he’s all that — for people who are _into_ boys, at least — but you’ve got to cover your tracks better if you want to break it to him without scaring him off.”

Pitt lifts a bushy eyebrow. “What makes you an expert?”

“I accidentally flashed him once, and he nearly passed out. Trust me, you can’t just walk up to him spouting true love and expect him not to duck and run.”

He slumps in his seat, defeated. “What’s the point, anyway? He likes Winry, and she likes him.” Rubbing his temples, he forces out a chuckle. “That’s the irony of it, actually. Winry was my first crush, but I figured out pretty quick that automail and those brothers held a monopoly on her heart, especially Ed. So, I got over her, and that was all well and good, but then… after I saw Ed again…” The rest falls into place easily enough. “You’re being pretty calm about this. I would expect most people to… y’know… gross out.”

“I’m not most people.”

Pitt smiles a bit at that. “Much obliged. So… how do _you_ think I should… y’know… tell him?”

“Well…” she ponders, “I’m sure you know Ed’s not the best when it comes to expressing himself verbally, so… maybe you should just…” She shrugs. “Show him instead? Support him and stuff. Be there when he needs you. That’d touch him way more than flowery words, don’tcha think?”

He nods, a thumb to his lip in thought. “…In the meantime, I’ve got to do the best that I can to become a doctor. Ed’ll give me an earful if he’s completed his goals before I’ve made decent headway on mine.”

Bri snorts. “What is this, a _romance_ or a _rivalry_?”

With a grin, Pitt twirls his ballpoint pen. “I guess it’s a little bit of both.”

Having a friend in Pitt helps. Bit by bit, Bri is able to open up to him, talk about her own experiences with love without shutting down. Pitt gets her, sympathizes with her without taking a step too far toward pity, and that, in and of itself, helps her grow comfortable around him. And, thankfully, Fiona doesn’t pry — she simply expresses her happiness for Bri’s sake and hopes that the friendship will continue to help her heal.

Then comes spring, and the day of the solar eclipse. Bri and Fi are with the Knoxes and Pitt when that strange and terrifying choking sensation clamps down all of them. Upon regaining consciousness just as suddenly, Dr. Knox checks everyone out before gathering his bag of tools and heading toward the heart of Central, Keith and Pitt in his wake. After enough waiting, listening to Radio Central, and staring at the smoke trailing upwards from the direction of Central Command, however, Bri’s had enough. Fi in tow, the sisters make their way to the center of the city. By the time they get anywhere close, however, the chaos of the coup d’etat or whatever the hell had driven the city crazy for the past twenty-four hours, seems to be dying down. Medical tents have been pitched around the edge of Central Command, and Fi quickly spots Keith.

“Perfect timing,” he calls to her. “We could use some extra hands over here!”

So, the sisters busy themselves, and Bri ends up standing next to Pitt. As the wounded are treated, bandaged, and transported to hospitals proper, the crowd thins. Bri recognizes people here and there from the crowd: Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye, Cousins Alex and Olivier. It seems like just about everybody had gotten tangled up in this mess. But then…

“Pitt.” Grabbing his sleeve, she nudges her head in the indicative direction. Whatever confusion on his face vanishes the moment he follows her lead. A moment later, he’s gotten Keith’s permission for a quick break, and _break_ ing into a run is exactly what he does, with Bri following behind and snickering to herself about how that’s really not subtle at all.

Beaten up to shit, but bandaged and plus one right arm is Edward, and seated beside him, propped up by sandbags and scrawnier than most corpses is—

“Alphonse!” …Okay, Bri will give Pitt tact points for embracing the restored younger brother first. “Shit, Al, let’s get you to an IV or something! You look like you might fly away if the wind blows too hard.”

That gets Al chuckling, and Ed, too. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Pitt,” says Al, patting his friend on the back. “Are you studying at one of the military hospitals here?”

“You bet!” And Pitt puffs up with pride. It’s kind of cute, seeing his boyishness emerge around the brothers. “But once I’m licensed, I’m gonna travel around — just you wait.”

Seizing her opening for a retort, Bri steps up behind him and bops his head with the blade of her hand. “Pass your resident entrance exams first, dummy.” She grins at Ed, and it’s a relief to her that she doesn’t have to force it. “Congrats, Ed. Al.”

“Thanks,” Ed answers on the beat. “I’m glad you’re hanging in there.”

“That’s my line, stupid. You could have sent a postcard from wherever you were hiding, saying, ‘ _Hey, I’m not dead,’_ or something.”

“That would have defeated the purpose of _hiding_.”

By this time, Pitt has finished equally congratulating Alphonse and worrying over his feeble condition, and he at last turns to Ed. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” And the two knock forearms like it’s a secret handshake. Bri resists the urge to suggest they get a room.

Before much else can happen, though, a new voice filters in. “Edward!” Approaching the group is an Ishvalan, the same guy who had seemed to know Renata.

“Oh, whoa!” Ed pushes up to his feet to shake the young man’s hand. “Look who else has decided not to be MIA anymore, Ca—” But he stops mid-word when he catches sight of the breathtakingly beautiful woman in his acquaintance’s wake. Alphonse is gaping at her, too. In an instant, Ed’s stance becomes tense, like he’s ready for another fight.

“H-Hey! Edward, it’s not— she’s not—”

“It’s okay, Carter,” says the woman, stepping out from behind him as if she has nothing whatsoever to fear from Ed. “It’s a long story, Fullmetal, but we’re on the same side.” Though she is a little imposing with the poise she carries, her expression is open, perhaps a little sad. She extends her hand to Edward in truce. “If you were able to trust Greed to the end, I hope we can get along?”

Ed considers her for a long moment. “Try saying something like that to Jean Havoc with a straight face.” But he accepts the handshake. “If _Carter_ can forgive you for that, then I guess I got no place holding a grudge.”

“What about Jean?” A little wild-eyed, Carter has come around one side of his companion and gripped Ed’s shoulder. “Edward, what do you mean by that?”

Bri tunes out Edward’s explanation to Carter, far more interested in assessing Pitt. As expected, he’s watching Ed in that glassy daze. Thankfully, the observant Alphonse is distracted by the woman: after eyeing each other cautiously, she sits down beside him and strikes up conversation full of more explanations that Bri doesn’t care to wrap her head around right now. Soon enough, though, Carter and the woman take their leave, with Ed calling, “Try not to run into the colonel and the lieutenant on your way out!” after them. Then, a doctor herds the brothers off to the main military hospital, breaking up the little gathering entirely.

Not for long, though. With little else to do while Olivier is occupied with the duties of her rank, Bri heads to the hospital as soon as she can convince Fiona she won’t be a bother to their rest. Pitt, not surprisingly, meets her on the way there, determined to play unofficial nurse. (Oh, the jokes she could make about that~) However, barely have they arrived at the brothers’ room when Edward is beckoned into the hallway to take a phone call… and, when he returns, he’s gone pale.

“Brother?” Alphonse grips his sheets, his gaunt forehead easily creased with worry. “What’s wrong?”

At first, Ed says nothing, pressing his lips together to keep them from trembling outright. But, after a stinted breath, he lifts his eyes to meet Al’s. “That was Pinako. H… Hohenheim is dead.”

Hohenheim? Wait, that’s… Ed and Al’s…

“Dad?” Trembling, Al fights to control his breathing in spite of the shock. “But, how?”

“She found him in front of Mom’s grave, just… sitting there.” Ed’s fists are clenched, knuckles white. “She said he was smiling, like he was at peace.”

It’s clearly too much for either of them to bear. Ed is just better at suppressing it. Al begins to weep into his hands, and Bri doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. She’s hardly the best example of how to process losing a family member, but at least, she supposes she can sit here with him. Edward turns back to the door, muttering something about needing air. After a moment’s deliberation, Pitt follows him.

Bri slips out only when a woman in dreadlocks and a burly bearded man come to the room and do a much better job of comforting Alphonse than she had. Once free, she tries to guess where Ed had trudged off to, and, as luck would have it, she guesses rightly. A ways down the hall on the same floor, tucked away in a branch that leads to a remote stairwell, Ed has curled up in a corner, his knees to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. Beside him is Pitt, an arm around Ed’s shoulders, supplying a brace as Ed shakes with repressed sobs. A moment’s eye contact between Pitt and herself is enough for Bri to know she shouldn’t butt in. Trouble is… that just leaves her feeling useless again.

+.+.+

Weeks grow into months as the Elrics, mainly Alphonse, take the time to recover their strength. Once Ed is fit to be discharged, Bri doesn’t bat an eye when Pitt volunteers to put his friend up in his small apartment. (Having recently dotted the final ‘i’ to begin his residency at the hospital, Pitt has income for actual lodgings instead of crashing on the Knoxes’ couch.) Bri wonders if Pitt can handle having Ed in such close proximity to himself without totally losing it. What she wouldn’t give to be a fly on that wall…

Perhaps that’s why she isn’t surprised when Ed asks to talk to her privately. It’s one of those times where the mental exhaustion of the past four years starts to seep through the cracks of his smile. He’s still been attending sessions with Fi, who has returned to a full schedule at her clinic — as it turns out, there had been a riot at Central Prison on the day of the eclipse, and one of the prisoners as of yet unaccounted for is Doyle Boucher (a thought that could paralyze Bri if she let it), so there’s no longer a point for Fi to clock time in her schedule for those visits — but Ed doesn’t seem to have made notable progress. In any case, of course Bri wouldn’t do anything but agree to his request. Besides… it feels like it’s been way too long since they talked, just the two of them, and she’s missed it more than she’d admit to his face. And wouldn’t you know it, Ed parks on the same sorry bench he had all those months ago. Maybe he’s more of a creature of habit than he’s let on.

“Okay,” says Bri, sinking down beside him, “What’s eating you?”

Ed laughs, but it’s an emptier sound than she likes to hear from him. “It’s a long list.”

“Start somewhere, then.” She could warrant a guess to one item on said list, actually. The day of the eclipse, Ed had sacrificed his ability to perform alchemy, in order to bring back Alphonse whole. Giving up something that had more or less _defined_ him for so long can’t have been easy, though she figures he would rather cut out his own tongue than admit anything resembling regret.

“I doubt I can get through it all today. I’m still… processing some of it, I guess. But, you’re not going anywhere, right? We’ve got time.”

“I think I can make room on my busy itinerary for Bench Chats with Ed.” A little quip here and there can’t hurt, right? This one seems to make him smile for a moment, at least.

“There’s, um… Well… you see…” Even if he’s taking a while, Bri opts to let him get through it without interruption. “You’ve… had sex before, right?”

As much as she wasn’t expecting _that_ , she gives him a deadpan look. “Yes, Edward Elric. I have had sex. I have seen more than enough dick and pussy for one girl’s lifetime. I—”

“Okay, okay!” Flushed now, Ed backpedals hastily. “It’s just that I think… well… you’ve gotten to know Pitt pretty well by now, right?”

“Well enough.” But now that _Pitt_ has been brought up, she can make a few jumps of logic for herself. “This isn’t about Pitt and me, right?”

“No. Oh, _hell_ , no. I know by now you’re not attracted to boys like that. It’s… it’s about Pitt and… _me_.”

One very awkward explanation later, Ed manages to put into words that Pitt has given himself away (as Bri had suspected he would from the get-go). Ed admits that he doesn’t know what to think about the situation, let alone what to _do_ , without hurting Pitt’s feelings.

“Y’know,” Bri says at last, “you’re the kind of guy who would let someone walk all over him if you thought it’d make them happy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps back.

“It means that you should be honest with that doofus Pitt about your uncertainty. Hell, he’ll probably dance a jig just because you aren’t telling him to piss off. Now… what’s all that got to do with your asking me about sex?”

Ed reverts back to flustered mumbling at that. It’s actually kind of cute, in its own way. Reaching over, Bri thumps him on the shoulder. “Look, it’s the same deal. If you aren’t comfortable with the idea, then tell him so. It’s not like he’s gonna force himself on you, right?”

Still pink, Ed shakes his head. “It’s… not that so much. I mean… I have been… _curious_ , I guess…” With a groan, he runs his right hand through his hair. “I have kind of dammed up my hormones for the past four years. And, looking at it objectively, there’s less to worry about in… this kind of situation.”

Typical Ed. If there were a chalkboard, he’d be mapping out a whole diagram of pros and cons. “It comes down to a yes or a no. If you complicate it too much in your head, you’ll talk yourself into it, even if it might not really be what you want.” As a casual afterthought, she notes, “For example, don’t you have a girl back home or something? Winry, right?”

If Ed wasn’t blushing before, he certainly is now. “Sh-She’s not my girl. I mean, there’s no… no understanding between us or anything. …I doubt she even looks twice at any part of me that’s not my automail, y’know?”

“Mm… maybe she’s just more subtle than you are. You’ll never know until you ask, right?”

He hangs his head. “…And if she turns me down, then what? I’m not gonna line up options like a chain of fallbacks.”

“So…”

“So… is it selfish of me that I… want to let him try?”

She considers that. There certainly could be complications down the road if Ed goes along with Pitt’s feelings, but not everyone’s standards are created equal. “I think, so long as you tell him what’s what, if he’s okay with that, then you’re on the same page and can work it out. Just don’t get carried away too quickly, okay? Especially if you care about _firsts_ or stuff like that.”

Ed nods and sighs deeply. “Thanks, Bri. I feel a bit better now.”

“Hey, no sweat. I’m glad to be helpful.” After a beat, though, she can’t help but tease him, “Do you want a rundown of healthy sex practices?”

“ **No, thank you!** ” But, soon enough, they end up laughing, and, even if it makes their ribs ache, Bri can tell Ed has needed a good laugh as much as she has.

From the look of glowing contentment on Pitt’s face the next day, Bri can surmise that something good had happened when Ed had confronted him. Poor Ed just looks dazed, so she scoots along the bench outside Al’s hospital room to nudge him until he responds by turning to her.

“So?” she prods.

He turns red on cue. “He, um… we didn’t… _do it_ , technically, but…”

“ _But_?” Wow, this is like having her own personal radio drama of young love.

After checking the hall for eavesdroppers, Ed leans closer to her and whispers, “We kind of… touched each other.”

“ _And_?”

“And… I… liked it? Shit, this is embarrassing. How can you talk about this stuff so easily?”

“I’ve built up a tolerance due to overexposure and sarcasm.” At that moment, Pitt emerges from Al’s hospital room, pushing a cart. Catching Ed’s eye, he pauses to wave cheerily before going on his merry way, with Bri and Ed craning their necks after him. Slapping Ed on the back, Bri grins. “Do your best!”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean!?”

+.+.+

Not long after this new development, however, Alphonse is strong enough to walk on his own. Naturally, he wishes to return to Resembool immediately, which presents a problem for the budding secret relationship of Bri’s two best male friends. Thankfully, though, Pitt is a good guy, and he seems content with the current status of his bond with Edward, at least enough not to make a fuss when Ed intends to go home with his brother. So, when he and Bri, and a small crowd really, see the brothers off at Central Station, it seems like that will be the end of it until further notice.

But life just seems duller for Bri without Edward Elric in it. She expects it’s much the same for Pitt. Fiona starts asking Bri more often how she’s feeling, and that alone is a sign that she’s beginning to struggle again. With everything that’s happened to her in Central… Bri begins to wonder if she’d be better off bidding the place goodbye… not unlike Marj had.

After enough phone calls with Ed, long talks with Fiona, brief meetings with Olivier, and late night chats with Pitt, a plan takes shape. Pitt’s family owns some property in Resembool that currently stands unoccupied and unutilized. So, to kill two birds with one stone, Bri will rent said property. Fiona sanctions the move as Briana’s step-down legal guardian, and Olivier agrees to foot the modest bill until such time as Bri has a steady means of income. (In fact, Olivier had practically _leapt_ at the opportunity to help Bri stick it to the aristocracy by bidding adieu to high society for good.)

Fiona does, however, give two conditions before Bri boards her train with Pitt (as he intends to show her the property… and, undoubtedly, see Ed). One, that Bri write her regularly; and two, that she keep in mind that she may need to come back to Central before too long for a certain event, noted with a meaningful glance in Keith’s direction. Bri surprises herself by how tightly she hugs Fi. Where, once, it would have pissed her off to see her older sister in high spirits, now it… it helps. She’s glad that, through the thick and thin of their years together in Central, they haven’t lost each other the way they’d both lost Cob.

Pitt passes the time on the train by telling her about various herbal remedies he’s been studying. Apparently, Ed had put him in contact with that Carter fellow, who seems to be in Ishval at present, helping Colonel Mustang gain traction for his restoration plan. Pitt seems very pleased to have a penpal who loves herbs and natural healing methods as much as he does, to the point that Bri teasingly wonders aloud whether Pitt should sleep with him.

When they reach Resembool that evening, Ed and Al meet them at the humble platform, and so does the elusive Winry Rockbell. And damn — like… _damn_ . Bri isn’t one to check people out shamelessly, but she _really_ has to control herself here. Ed must catch on behind Winry’s back, because he elbows Bri pointedly. What can she say? She has a type. (Even if that type is partially enablement for projection.) Like _he’s_ one to talk for making eyes, though. Through the whole tour of Pitt’s house, she could swear Ed is trailing after his friend like a lost puppy. It’s a small miracle that neither Al nor Winry calls him out on the spot for acting weird. Somehow, they make it through the ordeal, and Bri starts getting ready to turn in. Maybe she should have guessed, though, that, since Pitt won’t be leaving until the day after tomorrow, he would want to make the most of his time back home.

She really shouldn’t eavesdrop on them.

She does anyway. There’s just something so _immensely_ amusing about hearing Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, try (and fail) to muffle his own moans.

And, so, life in Resembool launches into a cadence of sorts. Most of the time, Bri has the run of the house and spends much of the time she isn’t doodling absentmindedly, trying to think what career options are even available to her, with Ed, who is just about equally stumped. It doesn’t help, she acknowledges, that both of them are barely treading water. If anything, Ed is having an increasingly harder time than she is. As his moods dip, he becomes… well, _clingy_ isn’t the right word, but he and Bri become very comfortable in each other’s space. Sometimes, his head will end up in her lap as she balances a sketchbook on one knee. Other times, she’ll nestle against him and let him braid her hair in every conceivable configuration. They even fall asleep like that more than once. Maybe Ed just needs the contact, she wonders, and doesn’t dare seek it from Alphonse for fear of weighing on his brother’s spirits. This just… works. She’s not into Ed, and he’s not into her, so it’s all well and good.

It’s only when Pitt accrues enough vacation time to come out to the boonies once in a while that the dynamic changes. In order to give the boys their time alone, Bri then makes some effort to befriend Winry (and not just because she’s hot). Perhaps it goes without saying that Bri is charmed by her grit and her smarts, and, were she to get any _whiff_ of mutual interest, she would act on it. After all, that’d be convenient, right? Ed and Pitt; Bri and Winry. The only hiccup is that Winry seems only to have eyes for Edward (though, whenever Bri points this out to either of them, she is met with overcompensating denial). Which means that, to reach a happy ending all-around, they’re all going to have to get on the same page.

By a good half-year after Bri’s move (a whole year after Marj had left),  it’s become very clear to Bri just how pulled Edward is between his trysts with Pitt and his yearnings for Winry. And she can see Pitt noticing it, too. Thankfully, Pitt, for all his rashness, really is a good guy. Ed had only ever been honest with him about his uncertainties, and that honesty pays off now. There isn’t really a break-up, because they’d never been anything official. It had just happened and happened and happened again, so they just decide, mutually (and Bri knows as much because they have the conversation in the same room as her, Ed leaning into Pitt’s shoulder), not to let it happen anymore. Pitt, in his magnanimity, even starts helping Ed plan out how he should let Winry know that he’s interested.

“I mean, you’ve known each other your whole lives. _Dating_ kind of feels unnecessary.” Looking over to Bri, he eggs her for support. “Don’tcha think?”

“I guess so, yeah. In all that time, she’s _gotta_ have seen the worst of you already, right?”

“Except for his small dick,” Pitt points out with a grin, at which Ed punches him in the gut, far too embarrassed to retort.

“I’m sure that won’t make or break the deal for a woman like Winry,” Bri assures the mortified blond. Ed nods, but hides his face in Pitt’s chest all the same. “So, if dating would feel redundant or whatever, maybe he should just… show he’s serious from the start?”

“What, like _propose_?”

Some unearthly sound of panic pries itself out of Ed’s throat.

“That _would_ so be like you,” Pitt admits.

“Yeah,” agrees Bri. “It might actually work, too.”

“…Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he mumbles, muffled by Pitt’s shirt. It’s funny, really. Bri’s seen Edward rush headlong into danger without a moment’s hesitation, but, when it comes to matters of heart, he acts like every step could set off a landmine. Everyone has their specialties, she supposes.

“Looks like that settles it, then,” she announces, crossing her arms with satisfaction. “We’ll leave the wording up to you — Winry will be able to tell if it’s genuine or not, and we want all the cards in your favor. Better get a move-on, though, or else _I_ might beat you to it.”

Ed sits up, his face suddenly blanched. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“It’d be fun to try~”

But, at that moment, there’s a knock at the front door. Probably to free himself from further embarrassment, Ed volunteers to answer it, but Bri doesn’t hear the door open. Instead, Ed calls over his shoulder, speaking more confidently than he has for the whole conversation.

“I think you can forget about chasing after Winry, Bri. There’s a blue-eyed blonde at the door with your name on it.”

Bri doesn’t remember standing up, let alone hurrying to where Ed stands ready to open the door. But she’s there all the same when it swings wide.

She’s thinner than she had been before. Her hair no longer sits in those perfect ringlets, instead falling down her back in waves. But the peaceful, hopeful smile on her face is the best Bri’s ever seen it, and it draws her like a magnet. Not caring in the slightest that Ed is standing right there, Bri launches herself into Marjorie’s waiting arms and kisses her.


End file.
